


Mad Season

by Rroselavy



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-09
Updated: 2011-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betrayed by his brother and trapped by his past, Jordan Kelly is barely surviving until a chance meeting with a force of nature named Goku offers both hope for a future along with the terrible realization that it just may be too late for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Season

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: **non-con, illicit drug use, gore, violence, mention of character death** (It's a real feel-good story, I swear!), AU, name-changes to fit with modern-day setting.
> 
> Notes: This was started well over a year ago for the LJ community yaoi_challenge's "Choose your author" challenge. Prompt (with which I took many liberties): _Sanzo/Goku - a reincarnated Goku desperately searches for his mate. He retains memories from their past lives and has found himself in a relationship with Sanzo in every last one. Convincing Sanzo this time proves more difficult than any other. Angst! with eventual happy ending._ With many, many thanks to kis, animom, and akuchan for betaing and hand-holding. I touched this last, all mistakes are mine.

The hit came from behind. A bright flash, a sharp pain to the back of his skull, and then … nothing.

Then pain. Throbbing pain, gradually invading the blissful nothingness, prodding consciousness along. _Wake. Up!_ it pulsed.

Jordan opened his eyes then squinted into light that was so bright it fucking _hurt_! A dark blob hovered in his field of vision. He blinked, trying to force his eyes to focus, to no avail.

The blurred smudge spoke. “You said you weren’t going to hurt him.”

Jordan recognized Sean’s voice. From contrasting edges of dark and light, he made out the familiar face of his brother. Jordan tried to speak, then tried to move, but his body refused to cooperate. Sean dragged his hand over Jordan’s forehead in a half-hearted attempt at comfort.

“Don’t try to move, bro,” Sean advised, “I think you got a concussion.” He was trying to sound upbeat, but Jordan thought his voice sounded tired and sad.

“You’re suddenly worried about him?” Another voice. This one came from the shadows beyond the light that was focused on him. Jordan tried to move his head and winced. Sparks of pain shot behind his closed eyelids.

He pried his eyes open, this time to gaze accusingly at his brother; something wasn’t right, and Sean had something to do with it. He tried to speak again but found his tongue leaden in his mouth. A dreadlocked form moved, separating from the shadows, and another face loomed, this one with a sinister leer curling its lip. He threw a glassine envelope on the bed Jordan was lying in, and Sean recoiled.

“Do you want to do the honors, or shall I?” The dreadlocked man’s eyes raked over Jordan’s body, and Jordan glared back. “Either way, his cherry’s getting popped.” He addressed Jordan directly. “You’ll make me a pretty penny tonight, boy.”

Slowly, events were piecing together, falling into place in Jordan’s mind as the residual fog from his being knocked out vanished. He should have heeded the warning signs; he should have known it would come to something like this. Sean had always been the weaker of the two of them, despite the front he managed.

Jordan had thought he had strength enough for them both. But now, as the gravity of his situation threatened to suffocate him, he realized he’d only been kidding himself. If he were stronger, then he wouldn’t have let Sean fall so far. He felt a rush of resentment bordering on hate for his brother’s betrayal. At the same time, Jordan didn’t spare himself from his rage; it had been easier for him to pretend that everything was fine.

“Don’t.” The word was raspy, but it was clear and directed at both of the other men. Sean froze, a guilty look on his face, and he dropped his eyes, unable to meet Jordan’s gaze. The other man grinned down at them smugly, clearly enjoying their predicament. Jordan vowed right then he’d wipe that smirk off the bastard’s face if it was the last thing he did.

Sean picked up the bag gingerly, then stood up. “It’s better this way.” He swayed a bit as he walked over to a small crate where someone had laid out a needle and some other instruments.

“Use this one. He’s disease-free, and I plan on keeping him that way.” The man dropped a hypodermic needle, still in its sterile bag, onto the makeshift table.

Jordan listened to the conversation, his wits sharpening with each word, his horror growing. He heard and then smelled the preparation, recoiling as Sean held him down so that the other man could tie off his arm and then press the needle against his vein. The first rush of euphoria hit him, exploding through his veins, bursting through his nerve-endings. A trail of scintillating stars blossomed with each muscle movement. He felt Sean’s mouth cover his in a sloppy kiss, then wet lips pressed against his ear, whispering a ragged plea.

“Forgive me, brother.”

 

The next day Jordan sat in the waiting area of Rabbit in the Moon. Sean skulked outside the studio, unwilling to enter, even though he’d been charged with keeping Jordan on a tight leash. It turned out Jordan had been a real cash-cow the night before, and Torres, the man who’d doped him up was quite pleased with his performance. The thought made his stomach churn queasily.

Jordan had lost count of how many there’d been or how many times he’d been fucked. The heroin hadn’t hurt in that regard--it took the edge off everything--and he could still feel its effects dampening the world around him as if it were covered with felt. Yet, at the same time, the lasting effects of the drug was sharpening his sight and his sense of touch: colors seemed more vibrant—almost garish--and the linen material of his shirt rubbed across his nipples, making them hard.

The studio was located in a seedy neighborhood and the picture window that faced the street was greasy with fingerprints. Jordan couldn’t recall the last time he’d stepped foot in the place. Thinking about that provided distraction, though, and he figured it had probably been some time before he’d graduated high school.

He stared at the neon letters--O-O-T-T-A-T--and said the nonsensical word over and over in his head, avoiding eye contact with Sean, who peered in from time to time. Sean’s shoulders were hunched and he was curled in on himself; he was probably already jonesing for more heroin. Jordan almost felt bad for him. He realized now how easy it would be to just let his life slide away the way it seemed Sean’s had, by succumbing to the false comfort of the drug. Just thinking about the euphoric numbness heroin brought about caused a strange itch in his balls.

He mentally shook himself.

Lynn or Lauren or Lulu or whatever the hell her name was stood behind the jewelry case that doubled as a counter for the register. She flitted about the small space, chattering on inanely about God knew what. He grunted at appropriate moments and managed not to flinch when, on more than one occasion, she came around to his side and pushed her more than ample breasts into his face.

“Nils should be done soon, Goldie! He told me to make sure you stick around.” She batted long lashes at him, then peered in closer. “Are you feeling okay? You look pale.”

He tore his eyes away from the translucent grey shade drawn half-way down the window to block most of the tropical rays from the waiting area and answered between clenched teeth, “I just need a cigarette.”

“Oh! Well, there’s no smoking in the waiting area, and besides those things are no good for ya--bad for the complexion, ya know! You don’t want to get all old and wrinkly like a prune.” She smiled sweetly at him, and his stomach dry-heaved in protest. She wasn’t a bad kid, and on any other day he would have been able to tolerate her babbling.

Someone shuffled out of the hall that led to the booths in the back and whatever-her-name-was thankfully turned her attention to the paying customer, leaving Jordan to his own devices. Which probably wasn’t the best thing, after all.

He felt hollow, scraped out. He kept turning that thought over and over in his mind, nausea building in his stomach. Strangely, he didn’t feel violated--not any more than he did when he had idiots pushing and pulling at him and draping clothes over his body, or taking hundreds of pictures as he posed. Surprisingly, he felt little at all. No sense of shame--nor guilt, or humiliation, for that matter; he hadn’t given a shit when it was happening, either. He wanted to blame it on the heroin, but he knew that if he was completely honest, he thought that being initiated into prostitution hadn’t been a far cry from the modeling career Sean had gotten him into.

He stared at the designs haphazardly tacked to the black walls and considered leaving before it was too late. But that would mean facing Sean and his beat-dog remorse, and Jordan wasn’t ready for that just yet. He tried to remember a time when things had been better between the two of them; tried hard not to think about how they’d grown apart since he’d graduated high school and Sean had lost his job with the police force, but he couldn’t. There’d always been a distance between them, a wall that he couldn’t seem to break down, and over the years it had grown particularly thick, especially after their father’s death. After Aidan had been killed, it felt there was a chasm yawning between Jordan and Sean. Their universe had been destroyed and they were the remnants, left to circle a feeble center of gravity. It hadn’t been enough for either of them, but for a while after they’d pretended it was. Jordan knew he should have paid more attention to his brother’s situation, but Sean didn’t made it easy. Whenever Jordan asked him about how he was making ends meet, Sean just stonewalled him and shut down what little communication they had. So instead of continually pressing, Jordan had just quietly created a trust and contributed to it regularly for Sean so he’d be ready when his brother hit bottom; now that it was too late Jordan knew that what little he’d done hadn’t been enough.

He could have gone to any number of tattoo studios that had opened in Miami since tattoos came into vogue. It wasn’t that he liked this one in particular, or felt anything but antipathy toward Nils, the guy who ran it. But Nils was a connection to his father, and that reason alone had driven Jordan here, even though he wasn’t sure of what Nils’ meant to his father. He’d been someone important, though; he’d shown up around the apartment Aidan kept often enough, usually around the time in the evening when Jordan was supposed to be in bed and when Sean was invariably out. Sometimes Jordan would lie in bed listening to the low voices and laughter that would filter into his room from underneath his door. He closed his eyes and remembered the tattoo that had encircled Aidan’s wrist--a curl of vines and, nestled within the tendrils, against the pale underside, over the blue of his veins, had been inscribed “Embrace Nothing.”

“Step into my parlor, little flower.” Nils’ voice was as oily as ever, and the nausea that had been threatening crested and washed over Jordan but he swallowed the bile he tasted at the back of his throat. The tattoo artist leaned against the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, and his blue-latex-covered hands tucked under them. He had a mad-scientist look, dressed as he was in a frayed white lab coat, muted plaid flannel pajama bottoms, and incongruous powder-pink bunny slippers. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips, and he waved lazily at the cloud of blue smoke that wafted around him. He didn’t look at all like the brilliant artist he was. “Come in, come in,” he exclaimed over his shoulder, giving Jordan a wink.

Jordan’s head throbbed in rhythm to each step he took down the tiled hall that led to the tiny cubicle where Nils worked. He stood in the doorway while Nils sat on a low rolling stool and scooted across the floor to the counter that served as his desk. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette into an over-full ashtray.

“So what brings you here?” he asked distractedly, shuffling through some tissue paper designs.

“I nee--I want a tattoo.”

“Oh?” Nils’ tone was genuinely curious. He rolled away from the table and swiveled to face Jordan. “Something on my walls catch your fancy?”

Jordan shook his head.

Nils grinned. “Something custom, then.” He reached behind him and grabbed a pad and pencil and held them up for Jordan to take. “Sketch it out for me.”

He scrawled out a word and handed the pad back to Nils.

Nils stared at it, then Jordan, then back to the pad again. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head again. “No, I’m not.”

“Won’t Donatella have kittens over her best boy mucking up his pretty skin?”

“That’s not your problem,” Jordan growled. “Besides, there’s always Photoshop.” It wasn’t as if any photo he’d appeared in wasn’t already retouched to hell and back.

Nils cocked his head. “Are you drunk?”

“Why? Do you think that’s the only reason I’d come here?” Jordan snarled. The thought crossed his mind that Nils would refuse him, and immediately he felt foolish. He shook his head again.

“Mm. It wouldn’t surprise me. You never call, you never write, you know,” Nils lamented, then laughed at his own joke. When he spoke again, there was no trace of mirth in his voice. “I asked because alcohol thins the blood, and while I’ve no problem inking your virgin skin, I don’t need a bloodbath. It’s bad for business.”

Jordan wasn’t so sure Nils would mind spilling his blood very much. The guy had never particularly liked him, and his wild accusation that Nils was involved in Aidan’s murder hadn’t been the most endearing move he could have made.

Nils crushed his cigarette out and his grin widened. “Have a seat, darling.” He pointed to the chair. “Where, perchance, would you like this _bon mot_?”

Jordan dragged his hand over the back of his neck.

The grin became a leer. “Then take your shirt off, sunshine. And turn around … so I can do you.”

* * *

“Hey, I found a real looker for you. Just your type--tall, thin, and blond--with an attitude the size of a small country.”

Goku rolled his eyes. Jake was always trying to set him up, ever since he’d figured out “his type.” Only, what Jake didn’t understand was that he didn’t have a “type.” He was only interested in finding one specific blond, who’d some lifetimes ago been a sanzo priest.

“Yeah, that’s what you said about Kyle, who ended up just this side of homicidal, and what’s-his-name--the guy you set me up with the time before--who stalked me for months. I still have that restraining order, dumbass.”

Jake ran his hands through his mane of long red hair and gave him a sheepish grin. The act was so familiar to Goku, reminding him that even if Jake didn’t remember any of his former incarnations, in Goku’s mind, he’d always be Gojyo.

“Like Kyle ever had a chance at messing you up,” Jake snorted. “And, at least what’s-his-name made things interesting for you.”

“Who says I needed ‘interesting’?”

“What you needed then--and _still_ need now--is to get laid.” Jake reached across the bar and ruffled Goku’s hair affectionately. “And I can see it in your eyes, you’ve got that hopeful look written all over you.” His grin widened, then faded. “But he ain’t the settling type. Every time he comes in, he’s with a different guy.”

Goku’s heart skipped a beat. He’d learned two things over his lifetimes: Gojyo had an unerring ability to find Sanzo, and more often than not, depending on circumstances, when they finally did meet up, Sanzo would have gone through prior relationships like tissues. As if he were searching for a certain someone, too.

“When does he come in?” Goku tried not to sound too eager.

“Every Sunday for the past month or so. Ten P-M, like clockwork. Has two drinks and then takes off with his date.” Jake’s face split into a wide, knowing grin again. “I knew you couldn’t resist checking him out.”

“Yeah, yeah. Only because if I didn’t, you wouldn’t let it go until you wore me down. Might as well get it over with.” Goku feigned indifference.

He finished his beer and placed it on the bar, staring at the club reflected in the mirror behind the bar, picturing Sanzo walking in. The room was bathed in an electric blue; the color would create an ethereal halo of Sanzo’s pale hair. Against the far wall, just across the dance floor, were privacy booths--tall-backed midnight velvet banquettes surrounding half-moon black lacquer-topped tables. Floor-to-ceiling matching velvet curtains could be drawn across them, shielding the occupants from prying eyes. Goku pictured sitting there, secluded, with Sanzo. The conversation would be awkward at first; he’d have to hold back his eagerness and his utter delight at having found Sanzo again—Goku knew from experience how off-putting his zeal could be. The same went for his knowledge of the different versions--themes--that wended through Sanzo’s lives: the loss of his parent-figure at a young age; his being pressed into service of some kind; his resolute will; his hard-hearted exterior, fashioned from the refiner’s fire of a tough life. But there was always a soft spot for Goku.

The club--Sapphyre--was Goku’s brainchild, and had become the hottest nightspot in South Beach. When Goku had created the intimate, comfortable space, he hadn’t even considered it would be popular, but since it had opened there’d been a huge line outside the doors every night of the week. The celebrity VIP list was habitually arm’s length and, on any given night, paying clients could rub elbows on the dance floor with supermodels, rock stars, and hot young--and not-so-young--actors.

Jake Singer had been a find, not only because Goku had been terribly lonely--he had plenty of acquaintances and business associates, though he’d developed a habit of holding people who weren’t Gojyo, Hakkai or Sanzo at a comfortable distance--but also because in this lifetime Gojyo was a tremendously talented DJ. He kept the dance floor moving, bringing the clientele to heights of ecstasy before letting them slowly spiral down to the vibe of a chill out beat. Following close on Jake’s heels had been Hakkai--now Damon Marks—who’d answered an employment ad. Fortunately for Goku, he was an extraordinary barkeep who had also shown his mettle as a club manager. There were others, too, from the past who Goku saw from time to time. In this lifetime he’d also run into Homura (who was a police detective), and in every lifetime, Kanzeon served as Goku’s protector in one way or another. The only missing piece of the puzzle now, as far as Goku was concerned, was Sanzo.

“So, I guess we’ll be seeing you tomorrow night, boss?” Jake asked with an indulgent smile.

Goku shrugged, already knowing that nothing could keep him away. He had to find out.

 

Goku stood in front of the mirror and fussed. Normally he didn’t give much thought to his dress or the way his shaggy hair poked up at odd angles, but tonight he needed to make an impression. He told himself it would be all right--it always was. Even though Sanzo, much like Gojyo and Hakkai, never admitted remembering any past lives, the connection would be there to draw them inexorably together. It was something Goku had learned over their lifetimes.

Goku had learned something else, too--how time didn’t move linearly between reincarnations. Instead, it seemed that there were endless iterations of lives being lived in parallel dimensions. Some lifetimes were lived in medieval times, others before written history, and still others in times that bore no resemblance to any reality he’d ever experienced. Or maybe that was how it jumbled in Goku’s mind; the cascade of memories that resided in his brain weren’t particularly orderly. None of that mattered, though--the mishmash of back-to-back lives lived eras apart, traversing time randomly--as long as he found the others.

The worst lifetimes were when he didn’t meet up with Sanzo. The few times that had occurred, the loneliness, even with Hakkai and Gojyo for companions, had been nearly unbearable. In those lifetimes, it was only his unshakable belief that he would find Sanzo eventually that kept Goku from just checking out early so that he could start his search anew.

He gave himself a final once-over, combing his fingers through his unruly hair. He’d put on a body-hugging button-down in a snakeskin pattern over a pair of low-rise jeans. He looked pretty good, he decided, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by a bout of nerves as he thought about laying eyes upon his soul mate for the first time in this lifetime.

* * *

As the days turned to weeks and then faded into months, it became apparent to Jordan that he wasn’t going to be able to rescue either himself or Sean from the situation Sean had gotten them into. Nor did Jordan have any faith that he’d be able to keep his brother from the grip of his drug habit if he did manage to extricate them both from Torres clutches. Besides, Jordan found it was easier to be a whore when he was riding H, and Donatella’s clothes still looked good on his frame, so for a while he was able to fool himself into believing it was only a temporary situation. The idiots could and would still ogle him, dressed or not, and he was pawed over on-site nine times out of ten anyway, so what he did for Torres didn’t seem that much worse. At least the transactions with his clients were more straightforward; getting paid to wear clothes and strut down a runway, or pose in provocative positions seemed dirtier somehow. The johns he served didn’t couch their desires in subtle hints or double entendres. They just took what they wanted, and Jordan delivered, surviving the ordeal by walling off his mind and emotions. What happened to his body night after night didn’t seem to belong to him. What happened in his mind was his alone.

He hardly saw Sean--only often enough for Torres to keep Jordan on his back and well-behaved like a well-trained dog. He’d been taught a lesson the one time he had made a run for it. Torres wouldn’t do something so stupid as to damage his merchandise, but he had no problem in cutting off a piece of Sean’s ear and then delivering it by messenger to Jordan’s condo. It was just a tiny sliver of bloody flesh, but the malevolence and violence of the act clung to the insides of the box it was placed in. Without even knowing exactly what he was looking at, Jordan felt violently ill, then sicker still when he realized his part in the macabre act—after his imagination helped him reason it out. The next time Jordan saw his brother only confirmed his worst fears, and no amount of reasoning could shake his sense of responsibility for letting harm come to Sean.

It had brought up a memory that hit Jordan with the force of a sledgehammer. It had happened a typically sultry summer day in south Florida; the sun so unbearably hot and oppressive that even the palm trees seemed to wilt. Aidan was asleep in the house; he’d worked an overnight shift so Sean and Jordan had gone outside so as not to disturb him. What Jordan didn’t know at the time was that Sean had got hold of Aidan’s service revolver. He was so excited holding the gun, aiming it at the coconuts that clustered on the undersides of their neighbor’s palm tree. As he got more and more brazen and careless, Jordan had only been able to watch with an equal mixture of awe and revulsion. What Sean was doing was terribly wrong, Jordan knew that and what was worse, Sean was older and certainly knew better. At the same time, he wanted to look up to Sean and he felt a vague sense of disappointment that he couldn’t live up to that.

The report startled them both. The sudden ‘pop’ in the silence caused all the birds in the neighborhood to take flight and dogs to bark in the distance.

“What the he—“ Aidan flew out the back door, rushing headlong, clad only in a loose pair of boxers. He came to a full stop.

“Sean,” he said reasonably, holding out his hand. “Give me my gun.” Sean stood motionless, pale as a ghost, gun at his side. “Jordan, go to your room, NOW,” Aidan ordered. It was the only time Jordan ever heard him raise his voice.

A few minutes later heard their voices through the wall that separated his and Sean’s bedrooms. He couldn’t make out what was being said, could only hear Aidan’s calm voice, punctuated by Sean’s. He was crying.

Later still Aidan visited Jordan, a grave expression on his face. “I know Sean is your older brother, Jordan, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a responsibility to take care of him.” Jordan nodded his head. “I don’t blame you for what happened,” Aidan continued, “but Sean is rash and impulsive, someday you’re going to have to look out for him as well as yourself.”

Within a month Aidan was dead, killed in the line of duty.

At his funeral, besides the usual sea of blue for a fallen hero, there was also a multitude of collars who showed up to pay their respects. Jordan assumed that they were, to the last one, trying to prove they weren’t involved in his father’s death, but he was moved just the same by the long line of street hustlers, drug addicts and drug pushers, and two-bit hoods who all, in turn, knelt in front of Aidan’s coffin and bowed their heads in prayer.

Afterwards, many had stopped in front of the seat of honor Jordan had numbly planted himself in, and paid their respects.

 _Your old man was solid._

 _Officer Aidan gave me a chance when I was just a piece of shit most people wouldn’ta bothered to scrape off their shoes._

 _He was the only cop who ever gave a damn about this hooker._

 _He didn’t let me get away with anything, but he was fair. You knew if Officer Aidan was hauling you in, he wasn’t gonna put the screws to ya._

 _He treated everyone with respect._

It made Jordan wonder who could have possibly hated Aidan enough to gun him down. It was a question that nagged him still, ten years later, the police having been unable to make any headway in the case. It was as if there’d been some kind of divine intervention and the killer had disappeared into thin air, leaving no trace or hint of his or her identity.

Aidan hadn’t been beyond bringing whores back to the apartment, allowing them to use his modest facilities to get cleaned up. More often than not, he’d even serve them a hot meal as well. It wasn’t unheard of, either, for him to go toe-to-toe with a pimp if he found out he’d been beating a girl.

Now, years later, Jordan wondered if Aidan would’ve taken him back in and fed him if he knew what he’d become. He could see in his mind’s eye the sadness etched on his father’s face. Of course, Aidan would never have turned him away. What Jordan couldn’t abide, though, was the thought of what a disappointment he’d become. He was glad his father hadn’t lived to see it.

The few times since his failed escape, when Jordan did get a glimpse of his brother, Sean looked awful, as if the burden of his betrayal was slowly killing him from the inside out. And maybe it was, but somewhere along the line Jordan had stopped caring about that, too, around about the same time he’d begun to mark time by the piles of empty glassine bags that accumulated on his coffee table.

Slowly, though, he was emerging from his drug-induced limbo. He’d been cutting his doses of heroin a little at a time, clawing through his days, doing his best to ignore his body’s craving and the raw nerve endings as he fought tooth and nail to adjust to the smaller amounts of narcotics he allowed himself. The trick was not to lose his cool; if he could fool Torres into complacency--into thinking he’d won the test of wills--Jordan would be able to get stronger on his own. And then he could blindside the bastard when the time came. The beginnings of a vague plan of revenge were forming; he’d make sure to take Torres down spectacularly.

The extended withdrawal sucked. Jordan’s dependency on the drug dogged his waking hours. A dull pain resided behind his eyes--it felt like they were being scraped out with a spoon. And, there were times when Jordan nearly lost his resolve, but he was determined to end his dependence. It only served to remind him of his own frailty and that, in turn, reminded him of how far he’d fallen. He was equally determined to kill Torres to prevent him from hurting Sean any more than he already had. Years ago, Aidan had remarked indulgently that Jordan could accomplish anything he put his mind to; now Jordan aimed to prove that statement right.

He walked along Ocean Drive, the sexy vibe of South Beach surrounding him but leaving him untouched. A light sea breeze ruffled his hair. The evening was cool, and Jordan was glad he’d put on a sports jacket. He caught his reflection in a plate glass window of a storefront and looked at it appraisingly. The cut of the coat was tailored, as were the slacks he’d put on--tasteful--but snug enough to show off his lean body.

The nightlife along the strip was as vibrant as it had ever been, but Jordan found little enjoyment in it. He was working that night--a new client until midnight and then a regular later on. The busy sidewalks were bathed in warm light from the open lobbies of the Art Deco hotels, and the sounds of dance music and glasses clinking mingled with lively conversation. Sapphyre, the club he was heading to was one block over on Collins--off the intense traffic of the strip--but close enough to catch club-hoppers and name-droppers and just about anyone who wanted a chance to rub shoulders with the rich and famous, or those who could fake it. Jordan liked the place in spite of that. It was welcoming, and there were enough celebrities that he could almost be invisible, even if he was working. As strange as it seemed, he almost felt at home there.

Normally, he wouldn’t go to the club alone, and chances were that he’d be back later with the client who’d booked him for most of the night. Somehow the DJ there had figured him out, though rather than rat Jordan out or press him for some action or a take of his earnings, the guy had cut a deal with him.

It was to be easy money. Two hours of making some dim-witted loser feel like he was the center of someone’s world--his world, to be exact. Jordan still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to such a thing--he certainly didn’t need the money; he had a decent amount put away from modeling. Nor was he accustomed to being charitable to some lonely-heart. The only reason he could think of was that his action had possibly welled from the same source of stubbornness as the tattoo. The thought of earning the two bills the DJ had promised and pocketing it for himself was as heady as the secret appointment that he’d agreed to was subversive.

And, as long as he didn’t miss his appointment, no one would be the wiser.

As usual, the line to get into Sapphyre stretched around the corner. The club was small--tiny--by most nightclub standards, creating an exclusivity which made it all the more desirable to get inside. He’d never had to wait, though; his model’s looks and attitude were a prized commodity on the club scene, and this evening was no different. Jordan walked brazenly up to the bouncer and was allowed past the velvet rope without a second glance. He used to scoff at the losers--the regular people who would never get into the trendiest of nightspots because they weren’t thin enough or pretty enough or just not dressed cool enough. Back then, he couldn’t have thought of anything more humiliating than being passed over on a goddamned line to get into a nightclub—but since then he’d learned about far more humiliating things that happened to people. Now, he wouldn’t think twice about trading places with any one of them.

A flicker of recognition lit the bartender’s eyes briefly as he set out a glass in front of Jordan with a nod and filled it with club soda. Jordan mouthed a “thanks” and took a sip.

It was early by nightlife standards, so the dance floor wasn’t crawling with people yet. Jordan stared at the room reflected in the mirror behind the bar, scanning the sparse crowd and wondering if his “date” was already there. He ducked his head when he recognized the detective who’d been assigned to his father’s cold case. The guy--despite the alluring uniqueness of his different-colored eyes and knockout physique--had never struck Jordan as much beyond a stuffed shirt, and certainly not someone who’d be active on the party circuit. He was talking to some club kid who looked about half his size. The poor fucker was probably getting carded and thought his thousand-watt smile would get him out of trouble. Fortunately, Detective Talbot--Honore Talbot, was the name Jordan recalled—was distracted enough that Jordan hadn’t caught his eye. He glanced up at the DJ booth just in time to see the guy—Jake--sliding off his headphones.

Something wasn’t right.

As Jake made a beeline across the dance floor toward him, Jordan had the overwhelming urge to get the hell out. He placed his drink on the bar and hurried for the entrance. Once back outside, he walked briskly in the opposite direction from the way he’d come, heading north and away from South Beach, intent on putting plenty of distance between him and the club and the detective. He should have figured he was being set up. The transaction between him and the DJ had seemed too smooth to begin with, and the bartender, who’d walked in on it, hadn’t been exactly thrilled when he’d figured out what they were negotiating. Still, Jordan had put aside his misgivings then, but he’d have to pay for that now. _Fuck_. The last thing he needed was to be hauled in on a prostitution charge by Talbot. Jordan’s career would probably survive the spectacle--he could probably even eventually shake the charge, especially with one of Donatella’s lawyers going to bat for him--but he wasn’t as sure that Sean would fare as well, if Torres decided to punish him for Jordan’s fuck-up, and Jordan was even less sure about how much more flesh his brother could stand to lose.

He heard the sound of hurried footsteps behind him but kept walking, focusing on the hollow sound of his Italian loafers clocking on the concrete sidewalk. It would probably be better if he laid low and stopped bringing his dates to Sapphyre now that they were on to him. The thought of getting one over on Torres and actually pocketing some chump change for himself seemed childish now.

“Hey man, wait up!”

It could only be the DJ following him; Jordan was stunned the guy had the balls to come after him. His anger flared, drawing off the stress of his situation and the realization that he’d been betrayed again. He wheeled and caught Jake unawares. Grabbing him by the lapels, Jordan dragged him a few feet before slamming him against the wall of a nearby building.

“What the--“

“Do you think I’m some kind of a moron, asshole?” he seethed, pressing Jake hard against the white-washed cinderblock.

“What the fuck, man?! Why’dya leave? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Take off your clothes.”

“Are you on dope? I’m not taking my clothes off!” Jake barked indignantly.

“You. _You’re_ wrong with me!” Jordan pushed away from Jake and spun around in a tight circle. “You didn’t think I’d see the cop?”

The crease between Jake’s furrowed brows slowly faded as enlightenment dawned. “Oh, him! He was only there because we had an incident at the club--he was leaving when I came out after you.”

Jordan remained unconvinced. “Where’s the wire?” he hissed. He stepped close again and started to pat Jake down, only to be shoved away roughly.

“Look, man, I’m not trying to set you up! I swear on my mother’s grave! Besides, you said that nothing was guaranteed.”

Jordan digested Jake’s words and stared hard at him for a few seconds more. Eventually, he had to acknowledge the merit in that statement, and could entertain the idea that he might have overreacted.

“C’mon. It’s two bills to chat a guy up for a couple of hours,” Jake cajoled. The slightly desperate tone in his voice made Jordan wonder what was in it for him. They stood facing off in silence for few seconds before Jordan held out his hand.

“Pay me now.”

“Nuh-uh!” Jake exclaimed indignantly. “How do I know you’re not going to take off?”

“You don’t,” Jordan said levelly. “But you don’t want your friend to see you paying me off, do you?”

He must have gotten through to the cretin because Jake pulled some folded bills out of his front pocket, peeled off two notes, and held them out. Jordan took them and shoved them in his pocket. With a flourish, Jake held out his hand.

“After you, Princess … _bitch_.”

Jordan froze for a second, fighting back the anger that threatened to erupt again. It was his own fault; the way he’d come onto Jake when he first approached him. It had felt liberating at the time, but now his behavior was paying him back in spades.

He schooled his face to a neutral expression and walked back to the club in silence, Jake following a couple of steps behind. Even though he’d decided that Jake was on the level, he still half-expected to see squad cars lined up waiting for him, but the only cars curbside were the usual queue of taxis and limousines.

He’d only been gone a few minutes, but the club was substantially busier. Jake pulled him aside before they reached the main room.

“It’s the guy that the cop was chatting up,” he nodded his head in the direction of the kid Jordan had seen before.

“That kid? Is he even old enough to shave?”

“Heh. He’s not jailbait. He owns this place.”

Jordan’s heart sank. Nothing good would come of this, but he’d taken the money, so he’d see it through.

Mindful that he was on a tight schedule, he drank two single-malts in quick succession--on the DJ’s tab--and then sauntered onto the dance floor to where the kid was moving in time to a ferocious beat. Jordan tried to reason why someone who looked like he did would be hurting for dates; owning the hottest club in South Beach couldn’t have hurt his prospects, either. Jake had told him that he was looking for Mr. Right. Inwardly, Jordan grimaced, knowing that in a couple of hours, he’d be showing the kid exactly how wrong he was.

It was easy enough to get his attention--a couple of “accidental” bumps did the trick. And then the kid--even though he wasn’t one, the nickname stuck in Jordan’s mind--shifted his body to face him. Up close and in perpetual motion, his body was a thing to behold--it was the perfect balance of sinew and muscle. And the smile that he flashed at Jordan made his stomach flutter; he couldn’t help but be drawn to him.

After a couple of dances, where their bodies managed to touch and their eyes met more often than not, he grabbed Jordan’s arm and yanked him closer.

“Wanna drink?”

Jordan nodded and the next thing he knew he was being dragged toward one of the semi-private booths. It had a reserved card on the table that a waitress removed when they approached.

“Whaddya want?” the kid asked, sliding onto the plush banquette. Jordan ordered another single malt and sat down next to him. The high-backed semi-circular couch dampened some of the thunder of the music, making it easier to talk. “Name’s Goku.” He held out his hand and Jordan took it.

“Jordan,” he replied, noting the shake was firm and efficient. It also managed to do a funny number to his stomach, but Jordan mentally chalked that up to the two scotches he’d had, on an empty stomach, no less. Goku was even more attractive, though, in this new setting, and Jordan couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he wasn’t taken. “This is a nice place you have here.” Jordan didn’t see the point in playing coy. He was on the clock.

“You like it?”

Jordan nodded his head, and Goku nearly blinded him with his smile. He seemed genuinely pleased and while normally that kind of ingratiating behavior seemed forced and rubbed his nerves raw, coming from Goku, it just seemed genuine.

“So what do you do for a living?” Goku asked.

When Jordan told him he was a model, the slight tightening of the corners of Goku’s mouth made him want to explain that it hadn’t been his choice. He’d wanted to go to art school, but with Aidan’s death, his and Sean’s life had been turned upside down. He wasn’t sure why he told Goku how his dream had been deferred, and that, hell, at this point it was looking less and less like he’d ever pick up a pencil to sketch again. But one thing Jordan was sure of was that he liked the smile that returned to Goku’s face as he told him about that aspiration; it was addicting and infectious, and as he basked in it, Jordan could almost forget he was just a whore and this was simply just another job.

“What kind of work did you do?” Goku asked as the waitress brought their drinks.

“It was figurative.”

Jordan nearly choked on his drink when Goku offered to model for him. His face flushed as he thought how that scenario might play out, and his dick sure enjoyed the image of his eyes roving over the planes of Goku’s naked body.

He was stepping into dangerous territory. The problem was that he could genuinely like the kid. Hell, he couldn’t lie to himself about at least being attracted to him. If he’d met Goku before Sean had sold him out to Torres, Jordan could see how things might have turned out differently. He regretted that he’d taken Jake’s money to chat Goku up now; it felt dirty. Goku deserved far better than the two hours Jordan was giving him, and Jordan knew from the way he leaned into him that Goku was expecting more too. And, God as his witness, Jordan wanted to give it to him.

As it was, Jordan knew that he’d have to cut things cleanly when he left the club; he couldn’t bring clients there anymore, couldn’t lead Goku on by showing up week after week alone and giving him the impression they had a future. That pissed Jordan off and sent him into a brief tailspin of loneliness. Between liking the club and liking the owner even more, the night was turning into one giant clusterfuck. And the clock was ticking. Jordan couldn’t miss his next appointment, and he needed to shoot up before he met his client. He could feel the craving building slowly, the curling need mingling with the desire he felt toward Goku. He focused his eyes on Goku’s lips, watching the way their shape changed as he talked about Jake and Damon the bartender, what good friends they all were. Jordan was almost jealous. He wondered what Goku would think of his friends if he told him that Jake had bought his time and Damon was in on it. That thought soured quickly, though, because Jordan didn’t really want to know what Goku would think of him for taking the money.

He felt sick at that prospect.

“Hey, let me get the next round,” he said, leaning closer to Goku than necessary. He smelled good; Jordan had an overwhelming desire to nibble on his ear. Goku leaned closer and Jordan jerked away, nearly stumbling to get out of the booth.

By the time he made it to the bar, he’d come to a decision. He pulled Jake’s money out from his pocket and laid it on the bar. Damon came by, and then from his wallet Jordan added the fifty Jake had given to him when they struck the deal and then another fifty on top of that. He leaned forward.

“Two hundred-fifty goes to Jake, twenty-five is for the two drinks I had before, and twenty-five is for another single malt and whatever it is he drinks.” He looked back toward the booth where Goku was waiting. As much as he hated to part with the money because of what it had represented earlier, Jordan felt lighter for it.

Damon gave him a small nod, separated out the two hundred-fifty, and pocketed the money. “I’ll be certain to make sure he gets it back.” He turned his back to Jordan and reached for a top-shelf bottle. Jordan watched him pour first the scotch, and then a liberal amount of ice into a second glass that he filled with vodka and seltzer. When Damon returned to Jordan with his drink order, he looked like he wanted to say something, but Jordan just took the drinks and spun on his heel. Goku’s eyes were on him as he walked back to their table.

“Ya didn’t have to do that, you know!” he admonished lightly.

“Quid pro quo.”

Goku knit his brow for a second, then grinned deviously. “That sounds yummy!”

Jordan nearly spat out a mouthful of his drink, then almost choked on it as he gulped it instead and erupted into a brief coughing fit. The infusion of alcohol hit him hard and he felt Goku’s hand on his back. He focused on the sensation and the heat from the touch, and avoided the concern in Goku’s eyes.

“I’m okay,” he volunteered, but that was a lie. He was far from okay--he felt stretched to breaking. He was in over his head and fast losing his composure. Just sitting next to the kid was temptation in itself. He leaned into Goku and brushed his lips over his mouth. Goku reacted quickly, surging forward until their mouths were pressed hotly together, and before Jordan knew it, their tongues were earnestly entwined and Goku’s hand was sliding over his thigh. His own wandered over to Goku’s crotch and was palming a very prominent erection.

Goku moaned into Jordan’s mouth.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jordan remembered that he needed to get going, but his mouth and hands were having none of that. Goku tasted exotic and earthy; it was a primal flavor that jolted Jordan to the core, and Goku rubbed against him so eagerly that he wanted to take him right there on the table with the beat driving them on. He would bet the kid would be game for it, too. But the cold reality was if he did something like that, he’d only be pulling Goku deeper into his nightmare.

He broke the kiss and pulled away.

“I have to go,” he said, unable to face the disappointment he was sure would be reflected in Goku’s eyes. They were killer eyes, too. Jordan couldn’t be sure of their color, but he didn’t think he’d ever forget how much emotion Goku could convey with them.

A hand gently cupped his chin.

“But I’ll see you again.” Strangely, it wasn’t a question. And the resolve Jordan had--to walk away and never come back--melted. He drew out his wallet and removed a business card--not his modeling card. For all intents and purposes this one looked like a legitimate business card, except for the small block print under his name: PERSONAL ESCORT.

Jordan picked up his drink and downed it in one gulp, then pushed the card in front of Goku with a smile he didn’t feel. His heart was pounding wildly and his guts were twisting up inside him.

“Sure,” he said brusquely, “give me a call sometime.”

He left Goku staring at the card, knowing it would be better this way. He didn’t want the kid pining for him, building up some romantic fantasy. He didn’t look back to see if Goku watched him leave.

Once out of the club, Jordan found a quiet alley. He leaned over, one hand splayed against rough concrete for support, and vomited until he was left with dry heaves. He wanted to attribute the sickness to the drug that his body was craving, but he knew better. Leaving Goku had made him feel like he was being torn in two. And so, he couldn’t be blamed for shooting the entire hit into his arm. Just this once; he promised himself, he needed it to take off the edge of gnawing hunger and loneliness that descended upon him before his ears had even stopped ringing from the volume inside the club.

Later, when he was on his knees and his john was fucking him, Jordan imagined it was Goku. The thought of being fucked by the kid made him hard, and he had to endure yet another humiliation: a hand job from his client that brought him to completion.

* * *

It took Goku a week to call the number on the business card Jordan had given him. He’d known what it was immediately, and it made perfect sense of Jordan’s unusually aggressive behavior. Sanzo had always been a creative and attentive lover, but it took work to break down the wall of ice that invariably encased his heart. And he was loath to show any physicality in public. Jordan was different that way, but Goku could still feel the undercurrent of hostility that clung to him like a second skin. This situation would be more of a challenge than Goku was used to, but he was confident he’d figure something out eventually.

Still, it ate at him that Sanzo--no, _Jordan_ \--was caught in that awful position. Being forced to have sex with people, and Goku knew there could be no other explanation for it, was probably killing him inside.

Goku spent the better part of his week gleaning information off the Web about Jordan Kelly. Unfortunately, it was a common name, but Goku had gotten a break from a profile image on Facebook. He had a brother, Sean. Their father had been a detective, killed on the job, his killer or killers still unknown.

Jordan had been a model for quite some time. Goku was able to find hundreds of images of him in magazine layouts and on catwalks in Paris and New York; mostly wearing clothes designed by Goku’s aunt, Donatella. The connection was more than just a coincidence as far as he was concerned; he wondered how long she’d planned to keep it a secret from him. Just because Kanzeon Bosatsu chose to take human forms didn’t mean the Bottisahtva wasn’t just as meddling as she’d ever been; even her deliberate inaction was a kind of meddling as far as Goku was concerned.

If he hadn’t had the benefit of his memories, Goku would have been hard-pressed to come up with a reason why Jordan would have given him his business card with its incriminating occupation. But he realized that Jordan hadn’t had a choice; he’d felt the same electricity, that same overwhelming, all-encompassing desire. It was a warning to stay away. Instinctively, he must have wanted to protect Goku.

Goku had wanted to follow Jordan out of the club and demand that he stay. He’d wanted to spill his guts to him right then and there, and the only thing that had stopped him was knowing exactly what Jordan’s reaction would be. It would take a lifetime to undo that kind of damage. He knew he had to keep his cool, no matter how much he was afraid for Jordan, no matter how jealous he could become if he were to let himself think about what strangers were doing to him.

When Jordan didn’t show up at Sapphyre the following Sunday, Goku was nearly distraught. The only thing keeping him from sinking into a downright depression was Jordan’s card tucked safely in his wallet and the decision that he would call him for a date.

He knew better than to reveal who he was when he dialed the number on the card, even when he was surprised to hear Jordan’s voice. The call was brief; there was very little information exchanged. Jordan was all business, informing Goku of his prices and what that did and did not include. When he agreed to the terms, Jordan instructed Goku to pick up a key card at the front desk at the Catalina Hotel on Collins, not far from where Sapphyre was located.

After following Jordan’s directions, Goku let himself into the room. His entire body thrummed with anticipation. He’d bought Jordan for the entire night.

It was a suite on the ninth floor of the hotel with a bare sliver of ocean view. The walls were covered with a funky chocolate brown and silver Mylar wallpaper; the motif was vaguely op-art. The bed was king-sized and dressed in white linens; a white robe lay spread out on one side. To Goku, it looked like a deflated person. A huge body pillow nestled up at the headboard. He paced the room nervously, listening to the shower running. He took off his shoes and then perched on the end of the bed and waited.

Within five minutes, Jordan strolled out of the shower, wearing only a towel. The surprise that registered in his eyes was quickly hooded with indifference.

“One thousand, cash up front.”

Even now, Jordan oozed confidence and control over the situation. Wordlessly, Goku took the wad of bills from his pocket and held it out. Jordan’s fingers skimmed Goku’s as he took money and tossed it on the credenza below the flat-screen TV. Goku couldn’t take his eyes off Jordan. When he turned around, he loosened the towel and let it drop to the floor.

He was gorgeous.

And even though he already knew that, Goku couldn’t help but continue to gape, his jaw hanging open for a few seconds as his eyes traveled over Jordan’s naked form.

He knew that body as well as his own. He had an encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge of every plane and contour. Goku knew every nuance, every minor flaw in the skin--every freckle; even more, he knew every erogenous zone. Where Jordan preferred a lick to a caress, a bite to a kiss--and that ingrained knowledge from the lifetimes they’d shared did nothing to take the edge off Goku’s desire. No, it just made him ache all the more to hold him, to lie with him, to make love to him.

“P-p-put this on!” he stammered, blindly grabbing the robe from the bed and shoving it in Jordan’s direction. Goku tore his eyes from Jordan’s naked body and riveted them to his face.

Jordan had frozen, a perplexed expression knitting his brow, one that slowly transformed into irritation.

“Che,” he scoffed.

“I--I just wanna talk,” Goku said, jumping up from the bed.

Thankfully, Jordan took the flimsy material from him, shook it out, and wrapped it around his body. Goku exhaled the breath he’d been holding and ran his fingers through his hair while Jordan cinched the knot.

“Talk.” Jordan’s voice was flat. He reached for a pack of cigarettes that lay on the nightstand. “You bought me for the entire night to talk.” He snorted derisively. “You really are a stupid … ape.”

Goku bit his tongue. If there was one thing he knew without a doubt, whatever Jordan’s circumstances were, he’d not arrived at them through his own foolishness. He felt tears pricking at his eyes and blinked them away. Jordan didn’t need his pity, either.

“Why did you call me that?” he asked.

“Call you what?”

“A ‘stupid ape’.”

Jordan looked perplexed for a second, then he shrugged. “It just seemed to fit,” he admitted his voice unsure.

Goku’s heart swelled, it was enough for now. “I _do_ want you, but not like this,” he amended.

“It’s your kink, not mine.” Jordan lit a match and drew on the filter of his cigarette. He turned his back to Goku, shifted the vertical blind, and glanced out the window.

Goku could name every single one of Jordan’s kinks, he was unhelpfully reminded. Though, as much as he wanted Jordan--and he had more than an inkling that Jordan wanted him too--at least beyond the act he would put on for a john, Goku wouldn’t take advantage of the situation.

“I want you to come with me--walk away from this life. You don’t have to live like this,” he said.

“Tch. You think it’s that easy?” Jordan turned his head. One brow lifted as he blew out a thin stream of smoke from between his lips.

It wasn’t an outright refusal, Goku reasoned silently, willing to seize on any chink in Jordan’s carefully crafted wall of indifference.

“Of course it is! You don’t need the money! You’re a top model!”

“So. You’re my knight in shining armor, come to rescue me?” Jordan laughed bitterly at his own metaphor, then stabbed his cigarette out in an ashtray on a table next to the window. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, or the trouble that would bring you.” He advanced on Goku. “I know you want me, you’ve already said as much.” His voice was a low rumble. He stopped only inches from Goku, threaded his fingers through Goku’s hair, and tilted his face up. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about my situation. I’m bad news,” he added before he pressed his lips to Goku’s.

For a few seconds Goku let Jordan’s scent fill his nostrils and he drank in the kiss along with it. The tobacco taste was achingly familiar--tantalizing. Goku responded ardently, his tongue seeking it out in every recess of Jordan’s mouth. He felt Jordan’s hands caressing his shoulders then sliding forward to work along the buttons of his shirt, opening the garment deftly. Goku melted against the wall, lolling his head to one side when Jordan broke the kiss and grazed his teeth against Goku’s throat. The nip that followed sent pleasant shivers down Goku’s spine.

“Fuck … Sa--Jordan,” he sighed when Jordan dipped his head and his tongue expertly circled one nipple before his teeth closed against the tender nub. Goku felt his dick grow harder, pressing against the tight fabric of his jeans. His shirt was pulled further apart, the tails were freed from his waistband, and his chest was laid bare. He wove his fingers through silky hair, fisting it as Jordan’s hands tugged open the button that fastened Goku’s pants and parted the zipper to free his erection. Jordan slipped off the robe and dropped to his knees, his breath hot over Goku’s crotch.

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

Goku knew what Jordan was doing, but he couldn’t find the will nor the words to put the brakes on. Not when every fiber of his body was begging for their union, not when it seemed that every second he’d been living had been in anticipation of this moment. He didn’t care that just maybe, Jordan was only doing what he’d been paid for.

“You want it, too.” His voice wasn’t much better than a squeak, but Goku knew he’d gotten the point across when Jordan rocked back on his heels and violet eyes leveled a gaze at him. The intense color never failed to leave Goku breathless. Jordan paused as if he were weighing Goku’s words. “Whatever it is, I can fix it.” Goku dropped to his knees and cradled Jordan’s head between his hands. “I can make things right.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Jordan warned. “You’ll end up dead.”

Goku wanted to tell him that it would be worth it if it would gain Jordan’s freedom, he wanted to say that it didn’t matter because dead would be better than standing by silently while Jordan was slowly destroyed.

“You underestimate me,” he replied, grinning. He could feel the warmth of Jordan’s body, still flushed from the shower, and the temptation proved too much. He let his hands slide down Jordan’s neck and over his sculpted shoulders. Goku’s eyes fluttered shut as he brought their lips together again. He breathed in Jordan’s familiar scent and felt a shudder rack Jordan’s body as he moved his hands down Jordan’s chest, first skimming over taut nipples and then sliding further down until the tips of his fingers touched coarse pubic hair.

Jordan pulled back. His eyes were almost all pupil, but his hands were still at his sides. Goku could feel his own dick was already leaking; he couldn’t believe he was so freaking hard even though Jordan had barely touched him.

“Don’t try to save me.” Jordan dropped his gaze.

As if Goku could stop himself from doing just that! But he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere by disagreeing. Sanzo had always been a stubborn bastard, and not one of his reincarnations had been any different in that regard.

“’Kay.” He’d work something out on his own. Somehow he’d get to the bottom of whatever it was that was keeping Jordan trapped.

Jordan’s thumb slid over the crown of Goku’s dick, wiping away some of the milky fluid. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked it clean.

Goku nearly came from watching the attention Jordan lavished on his finger. His cock pulsed with desire. When Jordan touched him again, began rubbing his hand over the tip, Goku knew he’d lost the battle. He should have figured it would be impossible to resist the temptation, and Jordan’s aggressiveness only made it that more difficult. He closed his eyes and let Jordan have his way, surrendering to the blissful slide of his hand and the sharp nip of his teeth.

He was weak. Goku could admit it, and it was humiliating. He didn’t want to succumb this way, not in some sick power play. And Goku knew that’s what it came down to; Sanzo protected his heart with a ferocity that was unmatched. Jordan’s tongue slid down Goku’s midline, and his stomach did a little flip when he felt hot breath puff over his erection.

He cracked open his eyes and viewed the pleasant line of Jordan’s spine, only to be jolted by a dark stain peeking through the hair that fell to his shoulders. Goku moved the silky strands aside and read the upside-down text. The single word--“bitch”-- written in an old-style face, broke the reverie he’d fallen into. He stared at the letters, contemplating the word and why Jordan would be branded with it. He traced his fingers over the writing.

“You want me to be your bitch,” Jordan mouthed against Goku’s dick.

There was one way Goku knew that would get through to him. It wouldn’t be playing fair, but then again, neither was Jordan.

He grabbed fistfuls of blond hair and yanked Jordan back onto his knees. The flash of anger in Jordan’s eyes was tempered by smoky desire.

“Get on the bed,” Goku ordered, not missing the triumphant smirk that flashed across Jordan’s lips before he crawled over to the platform and climbed onto the mattress. He stayed on his hands and knees, offering Goku an unobstructed view of his perfect ass. Goku’s dick throbbed in appreciation. He stood and kicked off his jeans.

“On your back and spread ‘em.”

Jordan complied after a moment’s hesitation. That little tell-tale sign of confusion or insubordination, though, was all the encouragement Goku needed. The fire of resentment in Jordan that burned so close to the surface was something Goku could work with. He grabbed Jordan’s ankles and tugged until his ass was at the edge of the bed. Goku carefully arranged Jordan’s legs so that they were bent double and his heels dug into the mattress.

He was hard too, Goku noted, his dick an angry blush; to Goku the red perfectly reflected Sanzo’s ageless attitude of being put out and put upon. But he was about to shatter that façade. He knelt between Jordan’s feet and spread his knees wider.

“What are you doing?” Jordan scrambled to get up.

“Don’t move!” Goku’s voice was roughened by a desire so strong it threatened to eclipse all reason. He could smell Jordan’s skin, and underneath the hotel’s perfumed soap, the undertones of a scent forever engraved on his soul. Jordan lay back obediently; he remained silent, but the tremble in his legs belied his cool exterior. Goku pressed his lips against the tendon that stretched taut at the juncture of Jordan’s hip and thigh, then licked down the crease, underneath his heavy cock and along the seam of his sac. His teeth nipped the tender flesh of Jordan’s perineum, eliciting a sharp hiss. By the time his tongue circled Jordan’s entrance, Jordan’s whole body was shaking.

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” Jordan ground out shakily. Goku only smiled, then wriggled his tongue against the sensitive skin. The muscles spasmed and Goku’s hands gently pushed Jordan’s legs wider, further opening him until his tongue pressed inside.

“Stop it!” The words sounded ripped from Jordan’s throat and part of Goku genuinely pitied him, but not enough to stop; he reminded himself how aggressively Jordan had come at him only minutes before. A few seconds more and Goku relented, turning his attention to the inside planes of Jordan’s thighs. At that moment he wanted Jordan more than he’d ever wanted anything in all the lives he remembered.

But this wasn’t about _his_ needs.

Goku crawled up Jordan’s body, taking care to pay attention to his hips, then the smooth skin of his abdomen, the jut of his ribs. He felt Jordan’s erection bobbing against his chest. The heat from the swollen flesh along with the scent of his arousal was intoxicating. Goku’s tongue skimmed over one stiff, rosy nipple as his hands clamped down on Jordan’s arms at the elbows. Jordan’s back arched off the bed as Goku’s tongue worried the hard peak.

“Bastard,” Jordan growled. Goku continued the slow torture. He could feel Jordan’s arms straining against his hands. He heard Jordan’s head thrashing against the coverlet and felt his feet slip off the bed. Moments later, the weight of Jordan’s legs pressed against the small of his back, the heels digging in painfully.

“Damn you!”

Goku looked up. Jordan was staring at the ceiling above his head. It was time to gamble. By rights, even though he could do anything he wanted with Jordan, Goku wouldn’t force him.

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

Seconds ticked by in silence, and Goku smiled. Tilting his head back down, he blew lightly over the glistening pink flesh of the nipple he’d just been worrying. He shifted his weight until their dicks bumped and then slowly gyrated his hips and thrust in a rocking motion. He thought he’d never felt anything as perfect as the slide of their skin. Jordan groaned softly, his only capitulation. Goku felt hot spend coating his belly, and his own climax bore down on him. He came, and as he rode the blissful crest, he pushed them both further onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Jordan, pulling him close. He could feel Jordan’s heart pounding against his chest. As the seconds ticked by, the tempo slowed.

“Are you done?” Jordan made no attempt to escape his embrace; his voice sounded full, sated.

Goku laughed. “Hell no, that was just the beginning!”

 

Later, when exhaustion had overtaken them both, they lay entwined, Goku drowsing.

“Who’s Sam?”

“Huh?”

“You called me Sam before.” Goku blinked a few times as Jordan extricated himself from the embrace. “Is he an old boyfriend?” he prodded. Goku could see him in the dim light. He’d rolled onto his side, supporting his head on his hand.

“Oohhh,” he breathed out when he realized what Jordan was referring to. “He’s dead.”

“I see.” Jordan rolled in the other direction, turning his back to Goku. A match flared and then Jordan settled on his back, his head and shoulders propped against the pillow. His face was illuminated by a cigarette dangling from his lips. “I’m not some kind of surrogate.”

“I know that!” Goku protested. “An’ I didn’t want _him_ , I want you.” He reached out and caressed Jordan’s arm; it was then that he felt than saw the tiny pinpricks in the crook of his elbow.

Jordan pulled his arm away and then snorted, “You know how pathetic that sounds?”

Goku shrugged distractedly. Jordan was a drug-user. He wondered if it made what he had to do easier. Goku had seen people high before, had personally removed more than a few from Sapphyre. One thing he was sure of, Jordan wasn’t high right now; he hadn’t been high all day, either. But he was pale, and just this side of too thin, thinner than Sanzo had ever been.

“You weren’t worried about bare-backing, either. Or the blow-job I gave you,” Jordan continued, then prodded Goku with his elbow when he didn’t reply.

“Nope.”

“You’re an idiot. I could have just given you an STD, or worse.”

“No, I’m not,” Goku protested. “I know you’re clean.” And it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, if Jordan wasn’t. Goku would have easily traded his health for what they’d just shared.

“How would you know that, genius?”

“Ya made me wash my mouth before I could kiss you.”

“That’s just good hygiene.”

“Exactly. It’s how I know.”

Jordan made an irritated noise. “That’s a circular argument.”

“So?”

“I’m not going to explain to you how much your logic sucks.”

“Good.” Goku smiled and snuggled against Jordan, his grin growing when he was met with no resistance. Now that he had a better idea of the problem, he could work on a solution. With that mystery resolved, he was lulled to sleep by the comforting rhythm of the rise and fall of Jordan’s chest.

 

When Goku woke up the next morning he was alone. He felt a twinge of sadness, but he resolved to look on the bright side; by the time they’d finished, exhausted and spent, Jordan had given in to the pleasure Goku was giving him. He crawled out of the bed, intent on showering before checking out. As he passed the credenza on his way to the bathroom, he pulled up short. The money he’d paid Jordan was there in a neat pile. There was no note with it, nothing in the way of an explanation, but it was just the sign he’d been looking for.

* * *

Jordan had been unusually eager to fly to New York City the next day for a photo shoot. He was grateful to be on an airplane most of the morning and dreaded turning his cell back on to check his messages after he landed. That dread turned into something else, though, when Goku’s voice wasn’t among them. He passed it off as relief.

His schedule had kept him busy enough that he didn’t have time to consider what had happened between him and Goku, but not busy enough to keep him from being hit by strange, strong emotions throughout the trip.

But now, on the plane heading back to Miami, Jordan couldn’t stop thinking about him. He didn’t know what to make of him, for one thing. And even less, what to make of his own reactions to the kid, who really wasn’t a kid, but looked and acted so goddamned innocent. Not that what they’d done together had any hint of innocence--that had been pure down and dirty sex. What Goku had effortlessly accomplished was re-awakening a healthy sense of lust in Jordan; just thinking about his hot body and the things Goku did with his tongue made Jordan hard. In one night Goku had made him feel something that he’d long ago given up on. Jordan barely knew him, yet Goku had evoked some powerful emotions--feelings he’d thought were long dead and buried. And he knew that it wasn’t just about the sex, although Jordan couldn’t fault Goku in any way for that, either. The kid read him like a book; it was uncanny and unnerving. More than that, though, was the way they’d connected. When he and Goku talked, Jordan didn’t feel like his dreams had been stolen or his life destroyed. Goku had offered Jordan _hope_ , and that frightened the hell out of him. It was easy to do what he had to do to ensure Sean’s safety when there didn’t seem to be any alternatives.

The closer the plane got to Miami, the sourer Jordan’s mood became. He snapped at his seat-mate for leaning her elbow on the shared armrest, and at the flight attendant for forgetting his coffee. By the time he’d landed and collected his overnight bag, his attitude had blackened substantially. Torres sent a car to greet him; Jordan scowled at the driver and walked past him, fully knowing it was a pointless tantrum. He was cornered by the brute long before he made it to the sliding glass doors that opened up to the curb. Jordan considered making a scene but Sean’s gaunt face flashed before his eyes, quelling that impulsive thought.

He decided right then and there that he hated Goku.

The kid had cost him twelve-hundred and fifty dollars--nearly thirteen if he counted the drinks--and had been all over him acting as if Jordan had really meant something to him, but now he’d fallen silent. Jordan should have known better; the kid was a club owner, for chrissakes. No one who ran a nightclub could be _that_ innocent. He’d been played all right, hustled by a master. He pictured striding into the club and shoving Goku up against a wall, demanding the money he’d laid out. Only, when he got Goku into that position, he didn’t want the money anymore; he wanted him. He was pathetic; _hating_ Goku was too easy--convenient, even. Goku was just someone to bear the brunt of his rage because he couldn’t, no--wouldn’t--walk away from Sean.

Jordan looked out the tinted window of the limousine and stared balefully at the passengers in other cars and the pedestrians out on the sidewalks. They were all free, and he was trapped, feeling much like a bird in a gilded cage.

He pulled his cell out of his pocket to scroll through his messages and the damned thing vibrated, causing him to jump and nearly drop it.

“What,” he answered.

“How was your trip?”

It took a few seconds for Jordan to respond, long enough for his caller--for Goku--to talk again.

“Are you there?” he asked. Jordan’s heart was pounding.

“Yeah,” he replied thickly. He closed his eyes and let his head drop against the cool leather of the seat. Warmth bloomed low in his belly. “Are you stalking me?”

“Stalking?--Hell no! You told me when you’d be landing!”

Jordan scowled, trying to remember that conversation. He came up with a fuzzy memory--so dim he could have dreamed it. But it seemed perfectly logical in hindsight that Goku wouldn’t bother him when he was away. He felt some of his anger leach away as he settled into his seat.

Goku peppered him with questions about the shoot, carefully avoiding any further mention of that night, but Jordan could feel the anticipation building between them. When they’d exhausted that topic, Goku skirted around the other.

“Ummmm … When can I see you again?”

Jordan inhaled and held his breath. He wanted to see Goku again, but he wouldn’t be free for a few days now that he was back in Miami. And he didn’t know how much he could afford to see Goku; he couldn’t keep paying for their appointments. He felt dirty just thinking about taking money from him.

“It’s complicated,” he said finally. There was no reply, and after a few seconds, Jordan thought Goku had just hung up on him.

“I know.” His voice wavered and it felt like a knife was being twisted into Jordan’s gut. He closed his eyes and pictured Goku’s—gold, with slivers of caramel and mahogany radiating out from the center--but now clouded with disappointment The image hit Jordan hard and the breath rushed out of him. “But I’ll take what I can get.” Jordan rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Che. You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” The insult did little to hide the happy tone of his voice.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Tuesday.”

He had a long weekend to get through, and he had no idea how he’d be able to pull it off without alerting Torres, but Jordan was already looking forward to seeing Goku again; just that knowledge made the things he knew he would have to do before then more bearable.

 

“I brought you these.” Goku pushed an oblong package across the table.

Jordan stared at it uneasily. No one had ever given him anything without wanting something in return. After Aidan was gone, Sean would sometimes bring him candy or magazines, once in a great while, then get twitchy at him and call him ungrateful for not having dinner ready, or not vacuuming the floors properly, or washing the dishes correctly, or for letting too much laundry pile up. When he became a model, Jordan quickly grew leery of gifts from designers or photographers or other hangers-on; they always came with attachments, usually in the form of sexual favors of some sort that he was unwilling to grant. And the gifts his clients wanted to bestow on him now were similarly unwanted. He continued to stare warily at the unassuming brown-paper-wrapped gift.

“Go on, it isn’t much.”

They’d repaired to one of the Deco hotel bars along Ocean Drive after a day at the beach. A vaguely cool breeze lifted the loose edges of the market umbrella that shaded them; their tall glasses of vodka and tonic sweated puddles onto the stone tabletop. Jordan felt gritty from the sand and lethargic from the sun and from cavorting in the surf with Goku. It was a different kind of tired from what he was used to; the muscle aches had a wholesome quality to them. He’d earned them swimming for hours against the tide. For this one perfect afternoon, he’d felt young--younger than he’d ever felt--and carefree.

The kid had practically begged him to get his toes wet, and once he’d secured that promise from Jordan--once he’d gotten his foot in the door--Goku went for broke, dragging him out beyond the breakers. He couldn’t believe the strength packed into that wiry frame; Goku only grinned at him smugly when Jordan had remarked that he wasn’t really trying to break free from his clutches.

He carefully unwrapped the gift, uncovering a moleskin sketchpad and a small set of drawing pencils. He looked at Goku questioningly.

“I want ya ta draw me.”

“Here?” Jordan asked, his mouth dry. He took in the tanned plane of Goku’s chest that was visible between the lapels of the shirt he’d hastily buttoned up as they crossed the street from the beach. Goku’s eyes looked brilliant in the light, their color enhanced by his tawny complexion.

“Nah. We can go back to my place.” Goku must have seen his body stiffen because he quickly added, “Unless … you …”

“We have a couple of more hours.” He didn’t want to leave Goku, didn't want to think about his schedule that night, or the way the desire for heroin snaked over his skin when he thought about his work. He’d done well in New York, but the weekend had been intolerable. He’d used more heroin than he should have.

“So, we don’t have that much time,” Goku said, coming to some sort of decision. He jumped up and threw a couple of bills on the table, grabbed his backpack then hurried out to the curb and flagged down a cab. Jordan felt compelled to follow him, even though his common sense railed against going.

Goku instructed the driver to head north to the end of Ocean Drive. The address was to a hi-rise right on the ocean.

As the car nosed into traffic, Jordan had a sudden urge to kiss Goku. He tasted like the sea; Jordan wanted to lick the salt off every inch of his skin right then and there. For the time being, he settled for Goku’s lips, running his tongue over them languidly; savoring the moment. Soon though, Goku turned the tables, boldly plundering Jordan’s mouth, his hands sliding under Jordan’s loose-fitting shirt and over his skin with a promise of more earthly delights awaiting them, and leaving him breathless.

Jordan tried to compose himself while Goku paid the fare, then followed him into the cool interior of the building. There, Goku exchanged greetings with a tanned doorman wearing a brilliant white smile.

“Hello Mr. Son, did you have a nice time at the beach?”

“I did, Bobby. This is my friend Jordan,” Goku volunteered as the man led them to the elevator bank and called a car. Jordan returned a marginally civil grunt to the introduction, instinctively wondering why in hell he needed one; most of the time his clients preferred he was invisible when they escorted him past doormen or hotel-desk receptionists. He waited in awkward silence, listening to Goku and Bobby good-naturedly debate the merits of the building’s private beach over the public one they’d spent the day at. For a second, Jordan wondered if Goku had chosen the public beach because he was embarrassed to be seen with an escort and he felt his blood run just a little bit hotter, but that didn’t jibe with the introduction.

The building’s interior looked much like the one Jordan’s apartment was in. His, though, was located on the intercoastal side of south Miami had its own private beach, which he’d never frequented, and a spectacular view of the Miami skyline and the manmade islands that dotted the water between. He used to like to sit out on his balcony in the late afternoons and early evenings and watch the sun set. He wondered if Goku’s apartment had a view.

The doors opened to an empty car, which afforded more groping once they’d closed again. Now with Goku pinned against the wall, Jordan slid his hand underneath Goku’s shirt, brushing his fingertips over already peaked nipples, pressing his hardness against Goku’s hip. Goku’s erection jutted against his thigh.

“Jordan!” Goku gasped. The breathy quality spiked Jordan’s arousal, tenting his swim trunks. “Ya don’t have ta do this!”

Jordan lowered his face and nuzzled against Goku’s ear. “What if I want to?” he murmured. And he knew with singular clarity that he wanted nothing more than to fuck Goku, to make him writhe in the clutches of the same ecstasy that he’d felt the last time they were together. He pulled back enough to gauge the reaction to his words.

Goku smiled dazedly, his broad grin was dazzling. “Then that’s okay, too.”

“And after I’ve thoroughly fucked you, I’ll draw you,” Jordan added, thinking how lucky he’d be to capture Goku in a state of post-coital bliss.

Jordan barely noticed the apartment, so intent was he on getting Goku out of his clothes. When he did look up from his endeavor, he was facing a wall of windows that overlooked the ocean. The apartment itself looked like it had been taken from the pages of _Architectural Digest_ ; it was a soothing collage of earth-tones and soft textures, a perfect retreat.

It hardly looked lived in.

“What is this place?” he asked, suspicion getting the better of him.

“It’s my apartment,” Goku replied as he carefully unbuttoned Jordan’s shirt.

He snorted. “It looks like a museum.”

“Yeah, my aunt decorated it.” Goku shrugged, then his mouth found Jordan’s, and all conversation ended. Jordan cupped Goku’s muscular ass and hoisted him up. Goku wrapped his arms around Jordan’s neck and tightened his legs around his waist like a vise. He ground against Jordan, his ass tantalizingly brushing over his erection. The feather-light touch wasn’t nearly enough; a needy sound escaped Jordan’s lips and he walked Goku to the windows, pressing his naked body against one. The idea that someone might spy them like that only honed his desire to a finer edge.

Levering Goku there, Jordan freed one hand to slip his shorts off his hips, liberating his erection. “I want to fuck you right here,” he declared, his cock rubbing against Goku’s bottom. He felt Goku melt against him.

“Gimme your hand.”

No sooner had Jordan raised it, then Goku was doing his level best to lubricate it, his tongue spreading copious amounts of saliva on Jordan’s palm and fingers.

“Do me right here, right now,” Goku growled, a lustful glint in his eyes. If Jordan hadn’t been so turned on, he might have been put off by how eager Goku was, but he really wasn’t capable of any kind of rational thought, not when Goku was grinding against him mercilessly. He shifted his weight and reached down to transfer some of Goku’s spit to his dick, then guided it to his entrance. “Fuck, yeah!” Goku arched his back as Jordan pushed into him. The sensation of Goku’s muscles stretching around the sensitive tip of his dick nearly caused Jordan’s knees to buckle. In that moment, nothing that mattered to Jordan outside the four walls of Goku’s apartment, not as long as he could do this--could fuck Goku and listen to the delicious sounds he made with each thrust.

All too soon, Jordan felt hot seed coating his belly and chest as Goku came, his fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. He responded by gripping Goku’s cheeks hard and spreading them. Goku’s weight on his pelvis was exquisite and it kept Jordan firmly embedded inside. He felt Goku’s muscles spasm around his length as he chased his own orgasm. He was covered in sweat, his body was shaking from exertion and anticipation of his impending release.

When he came he cried out hoarsely and sank his teeth into Goku’s neck and felt his racing pulse throb against his lips and tongue. Slowly, Jordan brought them both down to the floor, where they came to rest still entwined, Goku sitting in his lap, secure in his arms.

The second time he fucked Goku, they were in the shower, washing away the remnants of salt and sand still clinging to their bodies.

The third time, they finally managed to make it into Goku’s bed.

Jordan was in the middle of drawing Goku when his cell rang. He wasn’t going to answer it--the ringtone was the one he’d set for Donatella--but something told him it was important.

There was no preamble to the exchange.

“Wherever you are, get your bony ass out of there, darling.” The edge in her voice alerted Jordan that something was wrong; the euphoria that had settled around him vanished as he dropped the pencil and reached for his shirt. Cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, he thrust one arm into a sleeve, then shifted the phone to finish dressing.

“I had an interesting visitor,” she continued unprompted. “Don’t worry, he’s none the wiser, but he’s a whole lotta pissed at his missing property.”

Jordan felt the color drain from his face and the cell shook in his hand. Goku, too, was alert now. He came toward him, but Jordan waved him off.

“What did he say?” he asked into the cell, trying to sound nonchalant.

“He said if he finds out who you’re with, they’ll rue the day they met you.”

Torres wouldn’t have put it that way. It would have been much more graphic. He glanced over at Goku and knew instantly that he’d do what he had to do--anything--to protect him. His mind was racing, a thousand thoughts clamoring for attention; they could all wait until he was safely away from Goku.

“Thanks,” Jordan offered, not knowing what else to say. Dread welled up inside of him. Now that Donatella knew about Torres, he was sure to lose his livelihood--then all that would be left was prostitution. He felt as if he were being swallowed whole, sinking into an abyss.

“I have a vested interest in Goku’s well-being.”

Jordan blinked hard, hung up on her in mid-sentence, then scowled at Goku, his mind racing, trying to figure out the connection.

“Who was that?” Goku was staring at him wide-eyed. Jordan didn’t answer. Instead he looked down at the image on the page, not even complete and already ruined by the foreboding phone call. For a second he toyed with keeping it as a memento. But that would only put Goku’s life in further danger. It was evidence. As were his phone calls.

He strode to the balcony door and slid it open. He stepped out into the cool early evening air. His cell rang in his hand--Torres’ ringtone. Jordan leaned back and pitched it into the ether. When it landed there would be nothing left of it.

“J-Jordan!” This time when Goku approached, Jordan grabbed him and shoved him against the rail. Goku’s upper body went over, but he held fast, knuckles white against the burnished nickel rail. He didn’t seem afraid, though, and that made Jordan’s temper flare even more.

“Who’s your aunt?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Donatella.” Goku admitted in a resigned voice. As if he’d been expecting to be found out. Jordan released him and the kid landed on his knees.

“Don’t come after me, don’t call me,” he warned.

“Lemme help!” Goku pleaded and, for a split second, Jordan thought maybe he could. But the reality was that that was just a pipe dream--just like his fantasy that he could make a go of it with Goku. He was a goddamned whore, nothing more.

“You can’t.” Jordan turned on his heel. He found his sneakers at the entrance, slipped his feet in and slipped through the door without looking back. He didn’t bother with the elevator; Torres, for all he knew, could already be on his way up. Instead, he took the stairs in twos, fifteen floors, right into the parking garage beneath the building. Once there, he found a service exit that let him out into a narrow alley. When he emerged and his feet hit the pavement on the Boulevard, he ran.

 

When Torres’ goons found Jordan and dragged him to their boss, there was no conversation. Torres no longer seemed to care where Jordan had been; he simply stood with his arms crossed and a shit-eating grin on his face while Jordan was held fast by one thug and beaten into unconsciousness by another.

He came to sometime later to the sensation of a cool compress against his bruised cheek. His head pounded and he felt tender all over; even breathing hurt.

“You’re lucky I was able to stop him,” Sean said absently, dipping the washcloth into a bowl of icy water and then wringing it out. “He was going to cut up your pretty face.”

Sean looked as bad as Jordan felt.

“Thanks for nothing,” Jordan said. The effort caused his ribs to ache. The cloth was removed.

“Next time, I should let ‘im work you over good, huh?” Sean’s voice was vaguely petulant.

Just blinking his eyes caused knife-like pain to lance through Jordan’s skull. “Do you expect me to thank you for this … this _life_?” he shouted through the pain.

The washcloth was dropped. Cool water sprinkled Jordan’s bare forearm. Cracking open an eye, he looked around. He was home in bed. He lifted the sheet that covered his body--home in bed, naked. A chill went up his spine. He had no recollection of anything from the time he blacked out to now and it terrified him to think what might have been done to him. But he didn’t feel the wooziness that usually accompanied the waning effects of heroin. His mind was perfectly lucid.

“I don’t know why I should expect anything out of you,” Sean said, his voice full of reproach, but Jordan refused to rise to his bait. “Nothing I did was ever good enough,” he continued. “Not good enough for him, not good enough for you.”

As much as he’d determined that he wasn’t going to encourage Sean, the pity party was becoming too much for Jordan. _He_ was the one who deserved it. Instead though, once again, he was being made to feel guilty, guilty enough to want to comfort Sean. “I know you did the best you could.” At least, Jordan reasoned, it was an honest statement, though its nuance would be lost on Sean.

“You were his favorite, you know.”

“I-- _what_?” Jordan winced, feeling sick from the sudden turn the conversation was taking.

“Dad’s.”

Jordan swallowed hard. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Oh, really? There was no room for me when the two of you were together,” Sean continued bitterly. “The sun rose and set around you. I was just a freaking satellite--I was the _moon_ , Jordan. Tell me I’m making that shit up.”

Jordan felt sicker, and he had to stop Sean from poisoning the memories he had of Aidan. They were all he had left. “Really, Sean? Is that why you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you! I love you!” Jordan thought miserably that he couldn’t imagine his life being much worse off if Sean _did_ hate him. “You must hate me, though.”

Jordan sighed. “I don’t.” It was a rote response without any actual feeling, but as Jordan examined it, he knew it was true. Sean was the only family he had, and he was a connection to Aidan. Despite what Sean might have thought, Aidan had loved him dearly, as Jordan did still, in spite of what Sean had allowed to happen. “I just wish we could get help,” he mumbled.

“Why don’t you just kill me, Jor?”

“Because you’re all I’ve got,” Jordan blurted. “And, don’t you dare go killing yourself, you sonofabitch!”

Sean laid his head on the mattress next to Jordan’s arm. “I’m sorry. I fucked everything up,” he whispered.

“I am, too.” Jordan reached across his bruised body and managed to ruffle Sean’s hair. He hoped the gesture was reassuring.

Time passed slowly. The apartment was so quiet Jordan could hear the seconds tick by on the analog wall clock in his kitchen. Each breath he took caused a dull ache in his chest--probably some broken ribs—and his head throbbed. He tried to piece together the events leading up to and through the beating and found that he couldn’t remember it all. He wondered if he’d given Goku up to Torres and thought, despairingly, that he’d never forgive himself if he had. He remembered clenching his jaw so hard that it made his teeth ache, not wanting to give Torres the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain. And then … blissful nothingness. Now he just felt disconnected and surprisingly calm.

“Where did you go?” Sean turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and gaunt.

“I was just trying to remember--"

“No, I mean … before Torres’s goons found you.”

The hair on the back of Jordan’s neck stood and prickled his skin. And then a profound sadness welled up from deep inside. As much as he wanted to trust Sean, he knew it would be fatal.

“I was just out walking,” he said evenly. “When he called me, I … I just wanted to be alone, just wanted to pretend that I wasn’t … I guess I won’t make that mistake twice.”

Sean’s look turned hard for a brief second. “You can tell me, you know,” he wheedled.

Jordan forced his face to remain bland, though his heart hammered in his chest. If only Sean were someone he could confide in. “There’s nothing _to_ tell,” he said finally. “That’s all there is to it.”

 

Torres kept Jordan imprisoned and isolated, except for frequent visits from Sean, until his injuries had healed enough for him to work. And then he did, non-stop for a week, escorted to and from every appointment by one of the interchangeable lummoxes Torres employed as enforcement. They’d all been new clients, too, and all a new type of client—the kind that liked to hurt their merchandise.

It didn’t take much for Jordan to figure out he was being punished for his insubordination; though, if Torres thought showing him the kind of clients he could be sold to would intimidate him, he was seriously mistaken. Jordan was under no illusion that those would be his regular clientele if—when--he lost his looks.

He did think seriously about killing himself, though. He even made a plan--he would dive off his balcony at the first opportunity, the first time there was a lapse in vigilance. He didn’t care what the repercussions would be for the poor sod guarding him; killing himself seemed to be his only escape, and his only alternative to the lure of heroin. He thought about how wonderful it would feel to free-fall into oblivion, and, from the height of a hundred-fifty or so feet, he was certain he wouldn’t survive. But Sean’s face and his guilty words burdened Jordan, so, in the end, he chose heroin, and weathered the abuse his new johns inflicted upon him; the new levels of depravity bearable solely because of the drug that coursed through his veins.

And then, as he approached breaking point, suddenly Jordan found himself back on the catwalk, this time in Paris for Donatella’s resort-wear collection.

He’d been shocked when the first call he received on his newly-replaced cell had been Donatella, booking him for the week. He’d nearly cried with relief. Then suspicion set in, suspicion tinged with wild hope that he’d see Goku—-either on the plane or in the crowd. He made a deal with himself that he’d lay off the heroin, no matter how hard it would be, if he could see Goku again. He knew that Goku had seen his track marks, but it hadn’t deterred him from calling him again. So for once, Jordan looked forward to modeling, if only because the thought of Goku watching him work and attending the parties afterward--on his arm--made Jordan feel happier than he could ever remember. He had to believe that Goku hadn’t taken his departure seriously; Donatella must have told him what happened.

* * *

Goku stormed past Donatella’s personal secretary, letting the man bluster as he ineffectually tried to head him off. He burst through the closed double doors that opened to her spacious office.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Kanzeon?!” he demanded, not caring that she was in the middle of a phone call.

“Dennis, something’s come up. I’ll call you back in a little while … No, it’s just my nephew and he’s got his panties in a bunch … Of course, I promise!” She laughed as she returned the receiver to its cradle. Her luxurious long, black ringlets shook as she tossed her hair behind her shoulders, then stepped around her desk.

“I’m sorry, Madam, I tried to—“

“It’s all right, Jiroshin. I always have time for Goku.” She shooed her assistant back through her office door, then closed it behind her.

“Look, _darling_ , you know I can’t interfere in these matters.”

“That’s such bullshit! You gave him a job! And then you told him about me! About us! And now he’s--he’s gone!” Goku’s voice grew louder with each statement. “And I’m afraid—“

“Goku!” Kanzeon’s voice was firm and commanding and it stopped Goku in his tracks. She leaned against her desk in front of him, holding his gaze. The usual sparkle of amusement was missing from her eyes. Reaching out, she cupped his jaw. “I’ve sent him on assignment, to try and keep him away.”

“Away from me?!?”

“Of course not, darling. I needed to tell him about our relationship because he had to get the hell out of your apartment, though.”

“But, why? He probably hates me now! Probably thinks I was playing him!”

“This isn’t about you, Goku.” Goku involuntarily shivered when a dangerous look flitted across her face. It stopped him cold in his rant. In all their time together, he’d never seen Kanzeon seem so rattled.

“Is it someone I know? Someone I knew?”

Kanzeon looked away. “The situation is not good. It’s someone we haven’t seen for centuries,” she added cryptically. It only alarmed Goku more.

“Why does it have to be so hard this time?” Goku cried out in frustration.

Kanzeon sighed. “I wish I knew. Apparently, someone is not learning his lesson.” She ruffled Goku’s hair. “I can’t keep him away too long, and I don’t know what’s going to happen to him when he gets back.” She pulled Goku into an embrace; the warm scent of her skin soothed him. It reminded him of the time he first met Sanzo--of sunny spring days at the temple where they’d lived most of that lifetime, of the cherry blossoms that used to fall in the courtyard and form big pink drifts that scattered under his footsteps.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered. He didn’t know why that surprised him. It wasn’t fair that he still couldn’t remember the reason why he’d been imprisoned for what seemed to be centuries before Sanzo found him and set him free. It wasn’t fair that now he remembered every heart-breaking lifetime he’d ever lived since. The deaths of his friends and his lover he’d witnessed time and time again. And each time it happened, the rawness of the loss threatened to tear him apart. Each time he woke up in a different world he had to cope with the terrible loneliness; the horrible feeling of being incomplete. But even with all that heartache, Goku still held out hope: one day it would be better. He and Sanzo and Gojyo and Hakkai would finally reach a place where they’d never have to fight for what they loved again; they would just live.

“Then I’ve got to get him out of here,” Goku said against her shoulder. “I can open a club anywhere,” he continued, a plan forming in his head. “We could go to New York. No, I need to get him out of the country. Could he work for you in Paris?”

Kanzeon took Goku by the shoulders and pushed him away, holding him at arm’s length. “Really, do you think he actually _likes_ modeling, dear?”

Goku laughed and shook his head. What Jordan liked was drawing. Goku had seen the way his whole demeanor changed when he opened up the sketchpad and picked up a pencil. He’d become lost in the work; and the drawing he’d made, though not complete, was very good. He had enough talent to get into art school. Goku imagined what it would be like to walk side-by-side through galleries and museums with Jordan and smiled. He knew what he had to do.

“That’s more like it, sweetie! You’ll think of something.”

Goku closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the tightness that had been in his chest since Jordan had left his business card on the table in front of him loosening a bit.

* * *

In Paris, Jordan had done something he’d never done before; he scored heroin and worked high. He blamed it in turns on Goku and his bloody aunt, and then by turns on Torres and Sean; even Aidan wasn’t spared. But underneath it all, Jordan blamed himself. His situation was due solely to his own weakness--his inability to sever his relationship with Sean. He was trapped because he couldn’t turn his back on his brother.

And Donatella stonewalled him on every front. She pointedly ignored his questions about her nephew, and when he cornered her one evening, she flat-out told him if he wanted answers he’d have to talk to Goku himself. But Jordan couldn’t bring himself to call Goku; whether it was justified or just paranoia, he was afraid that in doing so, he would put Goku’s life in jeopardy.

It was reasonable, then, when his fantasy didn’t become reality, that by the time Jordan landed in Miami once again, his mood was blacker than it had ever been. This time, there was no phone call from Goku to lighten it on his way back to his apartment. Instead, what greeted him exclusively were messages from johns, all requesting the pleasure of his company.

Jordan managed to avoid Sapphyre for a few weeks, mostly by reporting to his clients that the club had passed its prime. But it was inevitable that he would end up there again; if he raised too much of a fuss, eventually it would get back to Torres. And it wouldn’t take rocket science for Torres to figure out just why Jordan wasn’t interested in going back to the hottest nightspot in South Beach.

That was how he found himself in a limousine with a john, pulling up to the club on a warm summer night. His new client was at least twice his age, so Jordan wasn’t surprised the man wanted to show him off a bit before he got down to business. And, at first, he’d kept his distance from Jordan, enough so that he thought the guy was just living out some kinky fantasy in his own mind. He thought it would be a safe bet, then, when he agreed to go to Sapphyre with him, and, besides, for all Jordan knew, Goku’d already moved on. Maybe, even, he would be out with a new boyfriend, Jordan half-hoped. That thought should have been comforting, but as they waited in line to get in, Jordan found it only made him feel more miserable. Then a sense of dread filled him: what if Goku were at the club with his boyfriend?

Once inside, the first person they ran into was Damon. Judging from the frown that flitted across his face, Jordan thought for a second that he and his “date” would be asked to leave. Instead Damon seated them at the table Jordan had sat in with Goku that first night they’d met. He could feel Jake staring daggers at him from the DJ booth above the dance floor, but Jordan was all right with that. He scanned the room and didn’t see Goku. Everything would be fine as long as Goku didn’t show up. Maybe, if he was lucky, Damon would warn him off.

Things started getting out of hand almost immediately, though. Once seated, Jordan’s client began to paw at him, slipping his hand down Jordan’s shirt, while squeezing his balls with the other until tears pricked Jordan’s eyes. He leaned over and bit Jordan’s earlobe hard, then promised there was more where that came from. All hints of his being mild-mannered evaporated. He then ordered a tray full of shots and proceeded to start drinking them one by one. Jordan couldn’t get a good bead on the guy; he didn’t look at all like the freak he was turning out to be. He was pretty handsome, and was suited up nicely. Though, upon closer inspection, Jordan noticed little things--the cuffs of his jacket were slightly worn, his shoes, while expensive, had seen better days, and his hair looked a few days in need of a trim--things that had he been paying attention, would have warned Jordan to stay clear of Sapphyre and the risk of getting Goku involved in something. The kid would probably try to step in and protect him and get himself killed for being such a dumbass.

Things got downright tense when Jordan refused to drink the row of shots that his john put in front of him. And to make things worse, it was about that time that he realized that another pair of eyes was watching him. Goku was standing at the bar across the club. Jordan reached for the shots in quick succession, and Goku turned quickly away, bowing his head towards Damon’s, who was quite obviously giving him an earful, all the while casting furtive looks in Jordan’s direction.

A craving itch for heroin overcame Jordan and he thought about the loaded needle he’d tucked inside his boot. He’d planned on shooting up when they got to their final destination, but he could feel things fast spinning out of control. But above all, he couldn’t handle how much it hurt to see Goku. His john’s lavish attention was making matters worse, though, Jordan reasoned, maybe that would put Goku out of his life for good. He had to believe that even Goku wasn’t that much of a stupid sap to have any illusions that he still wanted Jordan, especially now that he’d had his nose rubbed in Jordan’s profession. Jordan knew he could no longer deal with the situation sober, and the drinks hadn’t taken the edge off.

“I have to piss,” he said, standing up unsteadily. The alcohol hit him hard, causing the room to swim in front of him. For a second, it looked like his client was going to follow him. “I’ll be right back,” he said quickly, and he pulled out his keys from his pocket and dropped them on the table as insurance.

Jordan weaved his first few steps then strode across the dance floor purposefully. He made it to the men’s room and leaned against the long trough of a sink while he waited for another patron to clear out. Inside the cool room, only the thumping rhythm of the bass could be heard; it vibrated against the smooth, iridescent glass tiles. As soon as the other man left, Jordan rolled up his sleeve then unfastened the dog collar he was wearing under his shirt. He was sure discovering that would give his client a rise. He cinched the collar around his bicep and pulled the hypodermic he’d prepped before leaving his apartment out of his boot.

Jordan was fastidious about his habit. While he couldn’t control whatever bacteria or impurities were in the drug itself, he always used new hypodermics and sterile equipment for preparing it. He frowned, recalling Goku’s blind faith in his hygiene. Stepping into an empty stall, Jordan found his vein, pressed the spike in, loosened his makeshift tourniquet, and almost immediately began to feel a pleasant numbness.

The music got louder as the door to the bathroom opened. The warm glow of his high was briefly disturbed when he felt himself yanked out of the stall.

“Why the fuck did you come here?” Jake hissed at him. Jordan only smiled dumbly at the redhead through half-closed eyes. “What the fuck? You’re stoned!” Jake continued, spotting his works. He grabbed Jordan by his shirt and pushed him against the wall. The needle Jordan had been holding dropped to the floor along with the dog collar. “You come here and tear Goku’s heart out and then shoot up in his bathroom?”

* * *

Goku had been watching Jordan through the mirror since he’d noticed him with the older man. He could see from Jordan’s body language that he was unhappy. He watched Jordan make his way across the room toward the bathrooms alone and then saw Jake not a minute later heading in the same direction. That was not good, not good at all.

He turned to Damon and leaned across the bar. “I gotta go make sure Jake doesn’t do anything stupid,” he shouted.

“He only has your best interests at heart, Goku.”

Goku knew that, but he knew too, that both Jake and Damon had it wrong. They thought that he was pining away over a hopeless cause.

He found Jordan in the men’s room, and as he suspected, Jake was pinning him against the wall. At their feet was a hypodermic needle along with other paraphernalia.

“Let go of him, Jake!” Goku yelled.

“He’s a junkie, Goku! We need to get him the fuck out of here.”

“No.”

“Oh, I see. You’re going to break your own club’s rules. For what, this jerk-off?”

“That’s not the point! Let him go, Jake.” Goku’s voice was low and threatening.

“What are you, a fucking moron? The second you turn your back he’s going to roll you. Probably stick a knife between your ribs for your last dollar.”

“I don’t need you to look out for me,” Goku said stubbornly.

“I beg to differ. You’re in love with a junkie.”

“Stuff it, asswipe.”

“Goku, don’t be a douche bag. If blonds are your thing--“

“You should listen to your _friend_ ,” Jordan said flatly, slipping from Jake’s distracted hold.

“Shut up, _bitch_!” Both Goku and Jordan froze.

“What did you call him?” Goku asked, his voice rising to near hysteria.

“Nothin--“ Jake started, only to be cut off by Jordan.

“You’re going to start lying to him now?” Jordan’s lip curled in a derisive grin.

Jake’s fist whistled through the air, but somehow Jordan was able to avoid the hit. His knee came up, catching Jake in the solar plexus as his momentum carried him forward, making him double over double, gasping for air.

When he could breathe regularly again Jake faced Goku, who was still glaring at him murderously. “It’s not what you think.”

“What I think?” Goku echoed incredulously. “Tell me, what the hell do I think?”

Jake looked uncomfortable then, his eyes sliding back and forth between Jordan and Goku. “Look man, you need to get your head on straight here. He’s bad news, Goku!”

Goku rubbed his forehead furiously. “That’s not the point! How did you-”

“The fuck is the point with you, Goku?” Jordan asked. “You have this fairytale in your head that you can fix me--it’s not going to happen.”

“Goddammit, it is! If it’s the last thing I do!”

The door to the men’s room slammed open against the tiled wall, startling all three men.

“It just might be, if you don’t step away from my merchandise.” Leon Torres strode into the room, followed by two of his henchmen, covering the distance to Jordan in a few strides. Torres stepped in front of Goku, pushed Jordan against the wall and held him by his throat. Jordan made some strangled noises against the vee of Torres’ hand, but to Goku’s dismay, he didn’t struggle at all.

“Tell him he means nothing to you. He’s just another john in a long, long line of clients.” He ordered. Jordan only clamped his mouth shut and stared daggers at Torres who then turned his attention to Goku. “This boy is my best bitch; he can last all night, and he likes it rough.” Turning back to Jordan, he leaned in menacingly, but continued to address Goku. “You _think_ you’re special, but he’s on his back half the day. He’s got one appointment he’s on the clock with now, and two others later tonight--he’ll be spreading his legs within the hour.” He glowered at Jordan. “Tell him.”

Jordan spat in his face.

“Fuck!” Jake exclaimed. It was only his lightning reflexes that held Goku back. An ominous _click!_ from the gun that materialized in Torres’s hand echoed off the cool tiles. Goku stared, wide-eyed, down the barrel that was pointed directly at him before raising his eyes to Jordan’s face. Jordan struggled then, but Torres’ grip on him hadn’t loosened at all.

“Maybe you need a little assistance,” Torres practically crooned.

“Leave him be.” Jordan’s voice was barely a whisper, but the emotion behind it was clear.

“I’ve had just about enough of you!” Torres bellowed. He brought the gun around and Goku lunged toward him, managing to clip his shoulder as the weapon fired, the bullet ricocheted off the tiled walls.

And then he was on top of Torres and in a mad scramble for the gun. The three of them fell together and Goku wrestled with the larger man, desperate to get the gun away from him. He felt Jordan struggling with Torres, too.

“Everyone, freeze!” Goku would have laughed at the cliché if it hadn’t been accompanied by another report and an immediate searing pain that seemed to slice right through his chest. The pain was paralyzing; Torres shook him off easily. He stood up and pointed the gun as Jordan wriggled closer to Goku. Goku could only stare in horror as Torres took aim.

“Boss, we need to get going. This place is gonna be swarming with heat in a few seconds!”

“I’m going to finish off this little prick first.”

Goku felt Jordan covering him with his body. The weight was comforting.

“Don’t shoot him!” another voice pleaded.

“Shutthefuckup, Sean!” It barely registered to Goku that Jordan was the one screaming now. Goku’s eyes slid closed as he waited for the next bullet.

* * *

Jordan thought for sure that they would all end up dead on the floor of the men’s room; there was nothing to stop Torres from finishing them all off and walking out of the club. But he didn’t have time to think about what it meant when Torres just turned on his heel and left with his bodyguard, leaving Sean behind.

Jake peeled himself from the wall he’d flattened against. “Gonna get help,” he said, his eyes locking with Jordan’s. He was deathly pale.

Sean tried to pull him away from Goku. “C’mon, bro, let’s get you out of here!”

“I said shutthefuckup, Sean!” He couldn’t believe Sean expected him to just let the kid bleed out.

Goku was in a bad way, and Jordan supposed that would have terrified him if he hadn’t still been feeling the effects of the hit he’d just taken. As it was, the entire scene was playing before his eyes like a movie.

“Goku,” he whispered, trying to make Goku comfortable. “Just hold on, Jake’s gonna get help.” He nuzzled Goku’s cheek. When Goku’s eyes fluttered open and his mouth started to move, Jordan’s heart leapt. “Shhh … don’t try to speak, just hang on.”

“’S okay … Jordan,” Goku whispered, his voice barely audible. “If I die, I know I’ll see ya again next time.” His hand slid against Jordan’s cheek.

“Shut up, idiot.” Jordan pulled Goku into his lap and held on to him, refusing to give him up when Jake arrived back at the scene with Damon on his heels. Blood soaked Goku’s shirt and his head lolled against Jordan’s shoulder; no amount of reasoning and cajoling by Damon or Jake could loosen his hold on Goku. Strangely, the club was quiet, enough so that he could hear the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles. “Hold on, Goku,” Jordan urged over and over in between planting soft kisses in his hair.

Sean, for his part, sat propped against the tiled wall. Jordan glared at him. Sean’s hands trembled as he shook a cigarette from a crumbled pack and lit it.

When the police and paramedics arrived at the scene, the only way they could pry Jordan away from Goku was by hand-cuffing him. Detective Talbot pulled him aside and gently coaxed Jordan toward the door.

“This is just a precaution,” he explained. “We’ll sort everything out at the station.” Jordan was scarcely listening, his gaze was riveted to the paramedics working over Goku. They’d torn his shirt apart and opened an IV drip. Gingerly, they lifted him onto a stretcher.

“This is all your fault, you worthless sack of shit,” Jake hissed at Jordan.

Jordan offered him a small smile. “You keep telling yourself that, if it makes you feel better.” He didn’t even mind the pain from the punch to his jaw that followed. It only proved his point. Damon pulled Jake away as the police detective stepped between them, but not before throwing Jordan a withering glance.

Not that it mattered. They were all dead men as long as Torres was alive.

“Jordan, don’t say anything,” Sean urged. “Let me do the talking.”

“Fuck you.”

Sean flinched. “You have no reason to trust me, but I’m telling you--Jor, you have to.”

“Trusting you ruined my life!” Jordan roared.

“I’m a fuck-up--I know—but, but, I’m a cop, too!”

Jordan gaped at Sean in disbelief. He blinked a few times and then realized that Sean was standing next to the cops--and he hadn’t been hand-cuffed. Jordan began to laugh hysterically. “You’re the biggest dope fiend I know! You told me you were off the force! You … you sold me out to that bastard!”

Sean looked away. Jordan appealed to Talbot. He nodded his head curtly, confirming Sean’s statement. Jordan deflated then. As he tried to wrap his head around Sean’s revelation. How much had Sean lied to him? Had it all been a lie? The drug-use, his pitiful confessions, but more than that, did it even matter anymore?

It took all the fight out of Jordan. He didn’t know what to think, didn’t really care how anything would shake out. He took one last look over at the paramedics working on Goku, then over to his brother, who was surrounded by other police officers now and was barking out orders, then hung his head and let the detective guide him through the now-empty club to an awaiting squad car.

Talbot closed the door then got into the driver’s seat. “Are you okay?” He asked, looking at Jordan through the rear-view mirror.

Jordan wasn’t sure he could answer that, because he wasn’t sure what Talbot was asking.

“What’s going to happen now?” he asked.

“Your friends will be placed in protective custody.”

Jordan snorted. As if Damon and Jake would ever consider him their friend. And Goku … Goku had said it didn’t matter if he died, they’d find each other again. The stupid shit; he had no right to be so damned optimistic.

“What about Sean?”

Talbot frowned. “He’s in a dangerous position. We don’t know whether or not his cover’s been blown. For now, he’s off the case; things got out of hand.”

Jordan snorted and let his head sink back against the bench. He didn’t want to think about Sean; didn’t want to feed the black hole of rage that threatened to consume him. But he was afraid to think about Goku; couldn’t fathom what living would be like if he died.

Luckily, the effects of the heroin hadn’t completely vanished. He let his mind wander and he thought about all the other prisoners who’d sat in that very spot before him. He imagined their sweat seeping into the cheap vinyl and mingling. Now he was adding his own DNA to the morass; a perfect distillation of losers.

They arrived at the station house and Jordan felt a sense of foreboding as he waited to be escorted in to the building. He hadn’t been there in ten years--not since Aidan’s death--and now he dreaded going inside. He dreaded the memories that were sure to emerge. He’d spent so many happier days there; he was mortified to think that his return was in police custody.

Talbot helped him out of the back of the car.

“You’re not going to do anything stupid, like run, are you?”

Jordan shook his head. He had nowhere to run to. Belatedly, he thought about his keys. Fortunately, the john he’d now ditched didn’t know where he lived, but if he were released he would have to have a locksmith come round to open his apartment; one who would agree to be paid after the job.

“Okay, turn around.”

Jordan did as he was told and then was shocked when he felt his wrists released from the ‘cuffs. “I--I'm not under arrest?”

Talbot nudged him towards the building. “Guilty conscience?” he asked.

“No--no," Jordan said hurriedly. Hope sparked that he could be free before he’d need his next score; he wouldn’t have to suffer withdrawal in a holding cell. And then he could get to the hospital to see if Goku was all right. He’d drag along half the force if he had to.

“You aren’t under arrest, but you aren’t free, either. You’re going to be remanded to an inpatient detox facility.”

“I—what?!? What if I refuse?” No one could force him!

“Then … you may be facing prostitution charges,” Talbot said quietly.

Jordan stopped short, his eyes narrowing in anger. “Bastard,” he hissed. “Sean put you up to this? Sean’s--"

“You and Detective Kelly are going to have to work out your differences some other time,” Talbot said, effectively ending Jordan’s rant, even though he continued to seethe. “This is the best way to keep you out of harm’s way until we catch Torres.” He ushered Jordan into an interrogation room, then made a call arranging for his transfer.

* * *

“You’re awake!” The nurse adjusting Goku’s IV had an artificially cheerful voice and overly bright smile. “You’re very lucky to be alive, young man,” she continued.

Goku tried to recall how he’d ended up in the hospital, then wondered if he’d died and was waking up in a new life. He was afraid to say anything; he remembered the misunderstandings that had happened from other lifetimes when he’d awakened into a new one without even knowing it.

“Where am I?” he asked, thinking it a reasonable enough question.

“You don’t know? I’ll get the doctor.”

“Wait!” Goku pleaded hoarsely, stopping the nurse in her tracks. A dull ache pounded in his chest. “Has anyone been to see me?”

“Oh, your aunt has, and a couple of friends. Actually, I think they might still be waiting outside.”

Goku breathed a sigh of relief. “Can they come in?”

“After the doctor checks you.” The nurse adjusted the bed so that Goku was comfortably reclined in a relatively upright position. He fidgeted until the doctor arrived and poked and prodded him, then pronounced him fit for visitors.

“You okay, man?” Jake asked, his concern written all over his face. Goku nodded and smiled weakly. “How are you feeling?”

“A little sore, an’ a lot hungry.” And a lot relieved. Goku was grateful that neither of his friends had been harmed.

“They said the bullet missed your aorta by millimeters,” Damon informed him. “It’s rather miraculous.”

Goku recalled the tense moments in the club’s bathroom; something about Torres had been familiar, and Kanzeon had hinted that they’d met before. The fear Goku had felt upon laying eyes on the man, even before he’d pointed his gun at him, had come from deep within—it had been a bone-chilling terror. Kanzeon had been intimidated by him, too. Goku hoped she’d come visit him soon, so he could pump her for more information.

He closed his eyes and Torres’ image flashed in front of him. Torres, but yet not Torres. Not-Torres was trying to kill him, but Goku was being shielded by a willowy blond. Something very, very bad must have happened; even though it was only a memory, he could smell fresh blood all around him. Something heavy encircled his head. Chains hung from his wrists, ankles and neck, similar to the ones Sanzo had freed him from. Jordan had saved him this time, too.

“Have either of you seen Jordan?” he asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

“Goku, will you just forget about that loser?” Jake replied, sourly. “He’s bad news.”

“No he isn’t!” He looked to Damon for support, but was only presented with a cold look. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“I can’t believe you’re still worried about that prick. It’s his fault you’re in here!”

“Now, Jake, you know that’s not exactly the truth,” Damon said quietly. To Goku, he added, “Jordan was taken away in handcuffs. He wasn’t injured.”

Goku was so elated to hear that that he nearly forgot the statement Damon had directed at Jake. He turned to Jake, who was considerably paler.

“What’s he mean by that?”

Jake was getting more uncomfortable by the second. “Look,” he said finally, looking guilty. “There’s something I need to tell you--I put Jordan up to meeting you.”

Goku smiled. Of course he had! It made perfect sense. “Well ya couldn’t have known he was a …” He let his statement die, as if naming Jordan’s profession would some how cheapen him.

Now Jake looked downright miserable. He appealed to Damon, wordlessly.

“Well, that may not be the case,” Damon continued. “I’m afraid we’re both complicit there. I knew what Jordan’s profession was, too.”

Goku blinked hard. “So then why didn’t you help him?” he blurted angrily. Both Jake and Damon looked dumbstruck.

“Help him, how?!?” Jake asked. That was the question, wasn’t it? Neither of them knew that Jordan--as Sanzo--had saved their asses as often as he’d kicked them; that as pissy as he’d been, he’d also watched over them all. There was no one Goku would rather have at his back. And Jordan had proved to be deserving of that, too. “I didn’t know you’d fall for the guy.”

“It’s okay, I know ya didn’t,” Goku reassured. “But you have to trust that I know what I’m doing. I’m not stupid, but Jordan’s worth it.” He almost added _to me_ , but Jordan didn’t need any qualification like that. “Look, he’s my soulmate, just like you an’ Damon.”

Damon coughed. “Goku, how did you know-“

“Does it matter? I just do, an’ I’m totally fine with it.” He wanted to tell them everything then. It was always there, just under the surface, the need to explain how he knew. But then they’d probably have him committed.

“Goku, we don’t know where he is, and we’re under police protection while Torres is still at large, as are you. There’s a policeman stationed outside your door. But Detective Talbot assured us that the noose was closing in on him.” That was it! Talbot would know where Jordan was! Goku knew that he had to be patient, though. He would have to find a way to talk to Talbot directly; he didn’t want to press Jake or Damon too hard.

“I hope that bastard gets what’s coming to him!”

“There’s something else you should know, Goku.” Damon still looked uncomfortable and Goku could feel tension building up in the room.

“Yeah?”

“Sapphyre’s been closed, and we’ve lost our liquor license, due to the … incident.” Damon and Jake exchanged glances, and something slowly dawned on Goku.

He winced for having not thought of it sooner, then shrugged. “There should be enough money in the bank account to pay everyone for two weeks. An’ I’d like to keep you guys on payroll until things get sorted.” The tension in the air dissipated a bit. “You know, I was thinking of maybe opening a place up somewhere else. Make a fresh start. Are you guys in?” His grin widened when he saw the spark of interest in their eyes.

* * *

Nothing could have prepared Jordan for the effects of going cold turkey in rehab; the mild effects of the slow weaning that he’d done the month previously paled in comparison. By the third day he would have given his left nut for a hit, by the fourth, he reasoned selling his body really wouldn’t be that big of a deal if it could get him some heroin. The only thing that kept him sane was that he knew Goku was going to be all right. He told himself that it didn’t matter if he ever saw Goku again. Then he told himself that the wave of nausea that followed on the heels of that thought was just the withdrawal.

By the end of the week, though, the symptoms had died down enough for Jordan to participate in the intensive therapy program that was part of his rehab. He hated every second of both the individual and group sessions he was forced to sit through. All he wanted was to be left alone to plot how he would get even with Torres. He’d go back to Nils; Jordan was sure that of everyone he knew, the tattoo artist would bethe most likely to be able to hook him up with someone who could lay hands on a gun. Now that he knew he’d never needed to protect Sean, Jordan wasn’t afraid of dying, not as long as he could take Torres out with him. The preposterousness of his plan didn’t faze him, rather, it gave him a reason to go through the motions of rehab.

He was shocked when Sean appeared in his room one evening, carrying a change of clothes.

“You look like hell, Jor. Go take a shower.” He laid out the clothes neatly on Jordan’s bed: a clean, pressed shirt and linen pants, along with socks and boxer shorts.

“Why are you here?” Jordan asked sullenly, then added, “Better yet, just get the fuck out!”

“Look,” Sean said quietly, “I can’t ask you to forgive me for … for--"

“Selling me out to a fucking gangster?” Jordan prompted, his voice rising.

Sean hung his head, but he didn’t budge. “I know you don’t believe me, but it was the only way I could keep you safe.”

“You call _that_ safe?” Jordan felt all the anger and feelings of betrayal returning in a rush. His fingers curled into fists.

“At least you weren’t dead!” Sean countered. “Because that’s what I was up against.”

Jordan blinked. “Did you fake everything?” he asked then.

“I faked the drugs, just like you did for a while,” Sean admitted. He pushed his hair off his ear. “But this was real.” Jordan winced. “I swear he could have taken my ear, my hand, my fucking dick, Jordan—anything--if it would have saved you.”

“Don’t you dare make me feel guilty!” Jordan turned his back, and screwed his eyes shut. He was only emotional because he was having a shitty week--the icing on the cake to an even shittier year. “You lied to me about everything,” he added, knowing how trite and pathetic it sounded.

“You have nothing to feel guilty about!” Jordan felt Sean’s hand on his shoulder. “I do. I’m sorry, Jordan—“

“Why, Sean? Why did you do it?” Jordan spun around to face Sean again. Sean looked good, better than he had in years. Gone were the rings under his eyes and the haunted look in them. He’d shaved, too, and the clothes he was wearing were crisp and new.

Sean frowned. “It seemed right at the time … I was going undercover to go after the guy … we were looking at Torres for Dad’s murder.”

“And you couldn’t tell me?”

“It was dangerous, Jor.”

Jordan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I know. I--I got in over my head and things spun out of control. I was so convinced I could bring Torres down.” Sean shook his head sadly. “I fucked up, big time.”

“How so? You don’t look any worse for the wear,” Jordan observed bitterly.

“I fucked _us_ up. When Torres put the screws to me, I should have gotten the fuck out of there. I thought I was this close to nailing the piece of shit.” He raised his hand up and closed his index finger and thumb so that there was barely a whisper between them. “Jordan, it was years of work. No one had ever gotten that close.”

“But you hadn’t, either.”

“No, but I didn’t want to believe I was failing. So I did the worst thing possible. I hurt you.”

“You put me in incredible danger.”

“You already were.”

Sean’s words chilled Jordan to the bone and suddenly it was as if a veil had been lifted; it all became clear, and the reality was almost comical. Sean had been played by Torres; the bastard had known all along what the score was. He’d exploited both their weakness--their love for each other. Jordan folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t ready yet to forgive Sean—didn’t know if he would ever be capable of it--but at the same time he could acknowledge that even if Sean hadn’t gone after Torres, the outcome may not have been much different. He wondered what Aidan had done to cross the bastard to have brought about such pandemonium. For all Jordan knew, it could have been something as innocuous as writing a parking ticket. The why didn’t matter any more; it wasn’t going to bring Aidan back. What did matter was the here and now. Torres, besides taking their father from them, had destroyed their relationship, as tenuous as it was; he probably wouldn’t have stopped until they both were dead. While Jordan believed he had every right to hate his brother for what had happened, if he did, then Torres would have succeeded. He wondered if Aidan would have been able to forgive Sean. That thought led him to a dangerous place, though, one where he was sure he didn’t measure up favorably. As guilty as Sean was, there was more than enough culpability to go around. It had just taken a stupid, idiotic club kid with a moronic heart of gold, who nearly died to save his life for Jordan to understand that.

“It doesn’t make what you did right.”

“I know that. I—I fooled myself into believing that whatever happened, it would be all right if I got the bastard, though. And I know this doesn’t mean much but I’m sorry, Jordan.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that. If you’re waiting for me to say it’s okay-“

“Hell no!” Sean snorted. “I know I don’t deserve that. At least, not yet. But I’m going to spend my life trying to make up for what happened.”

“You don’t have to do that, Sean. But I … I can’t take care of you anymore. You need to get your shit together.”

“I know, Jor. You don’t have to watch out for me. I’ve told Talbot everything, it’s all going to be worked out as soon as we get Torres. But I need to know--are you gonna press charges?”

“Against Torres?”

“No, against me.”

The thought hadn’t crossed Jordan’s mind--even when he’d had the opportunity to talk to Talbot.

He shrugged his shoulders. “What good would that do?”

Sean relaxed and then he pulled Jordan into a bear hug. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you,” he whispered against Jordan’s ear. Jordan couldn’t bring himself to return the hug, but Sean’s acknowledgment meant something. He felt a sting of tears behind his eyelashes.

“So now what?” he asked, wiping his eyes, when Sean released him. He looked askance at the clothes Sean had brought.

“You go take a shower, I want to bring you somewhere.” He squeezed Jordan’s shoulder.

“Where?” Jordan stiffened warily.

“To see that guy. The club owner you were with--Goku. I wish you’d told me about him when I asked.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to get some protection on him.”

Jordan swallowed hard. He turned to face Sean, not sure whether he should believe him now. “I thought you would hand him right over to Torres.”

Sean sighed. “I know. I—I wanted to tell you then what was going on, I tried to tell you it would be okay if you ran.”

“But it wouldn’t have been. Not for me.”

“You always were too good for your own good.”

Jordan didn’t want to go there; the wounds were too raw and he still felt too vulnerable. “Where’s Goku?”

“He’s here in another wing of the hospital but he’s going to be released tomorrow,” Sean replied. “I figured you might want to-"

“How do you know he wants to see me?”

Sean shrugged, then smiled crookedly. “How could he resist?” Jordan bit his lip, still on the fence. “C’mon, bro, we don’t have too much of a window,” Sean urged, checking his watch.

Jordan scowled, but after a moment, he headed for the bathroom.

* * *

The TV was on but Goku wasn’t paying attention to it. He liked the noise though, it made him feel less lonely. He was leaving tomorrow and he should have been happy, except he felt like there was a huge hole in his life. And, even though he was free, he was still in protective custody, which didn’t seem much different from house arrest. When the door to his room opened, he didn’t even bother to look in its direction; nurses had been checking his blood pressure and temperature every four hours for the week.

“Hey.”

Startled, Goku turned his head and then grinned broadly when he laid his eyes on Jordan. “Hey, yourself!” he said brightly.

Jordan looked uneasy.

Goku had finally managed to pump Detective Talbot for information about Jordan and had found out he was in detox. “Are you okay?”

Jordan nodded, but didn’t move from where he was standing in front of the door. His eyes darted around the room.

“I’m glad ya came to see me, I really missed you,” Goku babbled, trying to think of anything that would keep Jordan from bolting.

“I hear you’re getting sprung tomorrow.”

Goku nodded. “How ‘bout you?”

“I’ve got three more weeks.”

“You look great.”

Jordan huffed. “I clean up well. You should have seen me an hour ago.”

“I’d still have said you looked great.”

“That’s because you’re a moron who has no taste.”

“So I’ve been told.” Goku grinned, then laughed when Jordan smiled. “C’mere.”

Jordan turned toward the door and opened it; for a second Goku thought he was going to leave. Then Jordan turned back to him and began to undo the buttons on his shirt as he walked towards the bed.

Goku’s mouth felt dry. “Jordan!” he croaked.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Goku shook his head vigorously. He shifted over in the narrow bed, making room for Jordan. He grabbed the remote to shut off the TV.

“Leave it on, it’ll drown out some of the noise you’ll be making.” Jordan’s shirt fell to the floor with a whisper. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned forward, his arms coming around Goku’s neck. Goku felt a tug and then the hospital gown he was wearing loosened as Jordan closed the distance between them.

The kiss was gentle at first, soft lips pressed against Goku’s mouth, with the barest hint of Jordan’s tongue flirting against his lips. At the same time, Jordan’s hands smoothed over Goku’s neck and shoulders, pulling the gown further away from his body. Goku reciprocated, running his palms over the contours of Jordan’s chest.

Jordan broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Goku’s. “Goku, I’m sorry-" he began, before Goku cut him off.

“Shh … none of that matters. The only thing that does is you’re here now. I need you, Jordan, not just now, but forever.” Goku’s hands found Jordan’s damp hair and he pulled him closer for another kiss, this one more heated than the first.

Before Goku knew it, Jordan was beside him in the bed. His hands softly, almost reverently, caressed the side of Goku’s face, traveled down over his shoulders, then slid over his chest, carefully avoiding the bandage that covered his healing wound. Goku shivered and closed his eyes.

“Want you so bad,” he whispered, his mind racing. “But I can’t--"

“Just relax, let me do the work,” Jordan urged quietly. He palmed Goku’s erection through the thin bed linens.

“No! Someone could come in--"

“It’s all right, my brother’s guarding the door.”

Goku’s eyes opened suddenly, and then he groaned when Jordan dipped his head and found one hardening nipple.

“Okay,” he whispered, sinking back in the bed and surrendering to Jordan’s attention. He stared up at the ceiling, hardly believing that Jordan was there, afraid that if he glanced down to watch him he’d find out it was only a dream. If that were the case, Goku didn’t want to wake up.

“Hey, where are you?”

Goku tilted his head toward Jordan. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”

Jordan stroked his cheek. “I’m right here, you idiot.” He slid his hand lower and cupped Goku’s balls. “This is real.” He pulled himself up so that their heads were even. Goku could feel his breath; it was soft against his cheek. Jordan’s hand pushed the covers down and pulled the robe up, exposing Goku to the air. He thumbed over the tip of Goku’s erection. Goku trembled with arousal and anticipation.

“Jordan?”

“What is it now?” Jordan asked, his lips against Goku’s neck. There was a slight irritation in his voice.

“Will you come away with me now?”

“Where?” Jordan followed his question by nibbling on Goku’s earlobe.

“Paris?”

Jordan snorted. “ _Parlez-vous francais_?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t even speak French.”

“I’ll learn.” Goku’s heart thrilled when Jordan laughed.

“I bet you will.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“Yeah, what the hell,” Jordan agreed finally.

* * *

The shop was empty, the jewelry-case barren, the walls devoid of the flash that had decorated them the last time Jordan had visited. It seemed like a lifetime ago and, in reality, it probably was. Things were far different now, far better. Jordan took one last glance outside before the door closed. His heart fluttered in his chest and he had the strange thought that this is what his father would have wanted--for him to move on with his life. But more than that, it was what Sean wanted for him too. When Jordan mentioned the opportunity to him, Sean had been all over it, telling him that it would be good for both of them; that they both needed it. Still, Jordan had hesitated, finally admitting to Sean what Aidan had said to him that summer day long before. _”So, you did that, Jor, now it’s time for me to take care of myself. You’ll see when I come visit over New Year’s. And tell your boyfriend he’s toast if he messes with my baby brother.”_

“Oh, you’ve caught me. Red-handed,” Nils remarked laconically as he materialized from the hallway that led to the tattooing cubicles, holding a corrugated cardboard box in his arms. He set it on the counter, which was strewn with jewelry trays and odds and ends.

“I came to tell you I’m leaving. But it looks like you’re relocating, too.” Jordan eyed the older man warily. He knew ultimately he was free to move on because of Nils, but that didn’t mean he trusted him any better. Still, he wanted a clean break, and this conversation with Nils was a big part of that.

“Hm? Yes, Miami just doesn’t … interest me any more. It’s lost its allure. Time for greener pastures.” He stared at Jordan, a small grin plastered to his lips.

It hadn’t been a great leap for Jordan to figure it out. Fuck, Nils had left him a calling card. One that had bewildered the authorities; it had been hard for Jordan to keep a poker face when Talbot had questioned him about it. But he had, and that was what was important. Nils’ secret had been delivered to him and it was safe.

“How long did you know?” Jordan asked, his words measured.

“Does it matter?” Nils smile was downright sinister.

He had to think about that for a few seconds before answering. In the end, it _did_ matter. Jordan wanted to know if Nils had let him and Sean suffer deliberately.

“It does.”

Nils continued to pack the carton in silence and, after a minute or so, Jordan realized he wasn’t going to tell him. He thought about Goku waiting in the cab; just knowing that he was there caused a warmth to blossom in Jordan’s belly. It really didn’t matter, then. Everything he needed—the only thing he cared about--was waiting patiently for him in the passenger seat of a rental car parked in front of the shop, with two first class tickets to Paris peeking out of his shirt pocket.

“I started to put the pieces together when I saw the news report. After your little boy-toy was shot. Then a pretty little blackbird came to visit.” Nils glanced at Jordan. “You should have come to me, kiddo.”

“I didn’t think we had that kind of a relationship,” Jordan said stiffly, his mind buzzing with the breadcrumb Nils had dropped. It must have been Donatella.

“I suppose not,” Nils agreed blandly. “But you know, your father wanted me to look after you. I suppose I failed there, too.” He peered up at Jordan over the wire rims of his glasses. “You didn’t make it easy. You were a little shit.” Jordan digested Nils’ admission.

“I guess I was.” Jordan didn’t point out that Nils had never tried to endear himself to him, either. It wasn’t important anyway. Nils seemed satisfied by his response, his posture became measurably relaxed.

“That’s all water under the bridge, though, isn’t it?”

“Are you worried?”

“About what?” Nils was being deliberately obtuse. Jordan made a frustrated noise, and Nils snorted in reply.

“That someone will figure it out.” Jordan picked his words carefully. “About—”

“Should I be?” Nils interrupted. “I think they’d pin a medal on the person who exterminated that little worm. It’s one less headache for the fuzz, now isn’t it? One less fly in their ointment, and they get to close that _pesky_ little case. Your brother’s a hero, now, I hear.” His words were dripping with a venom Jordan thought should have belonged to him--that strangely, he didn’t feel at all. In fact, it was his absolution that had cleared the way for Sean’s status. Jordan had refused to press charges, refused to talk to the police or the press at all about what had really happened.

Nils pulled a cigarette from a crumpled pack on the counter and placed it, unlit between his lips, then offered one to Jordan. Jordan reached for it then allowed Nils to light it. Inhaling the smoke calmed Jordan, though he watched Nils warily from the corner of his eye, unsure of what to make of him, in this new light as some sort of ally. He knew he should have been happy that Torres had met his end and, from what he’d learned from Detective Talbot, who’d knocked on his door to tell him his father’s murder had been solved, it had been a gruesome one--Torres was found with his dick cut off and stuffed in his mouth; presumably by some other syndicate head that he’d crossed, or an overly ambitious captain in his own organization. Jordan wasn’t surprised to find out Torres had a long list of enemies.

There was just one little detail that had the police scratching their heads--a message they thought may have been left by the killer. Underneath his long dreadlocks, at the nape of his neck, Torres had been tattooed with the word “bitch” in a flowery script. Talbot showed Jordan a picture of the tattoo and, even if he hadn’t recognized the flowing calligraphy, he would have known the identity of the artist.

It made Torres’ death even more of a hollow victory; Jordan had lost his father and nearly his brother to the bastard. Although he knew that in time he would be able to forgive Sean, it didn’t mean he could ever forget what he’d done in his own blind, fruitless attempt at proving himself. Then there was the havoc Torres had wreaked in Jordan’s life; it would take time for him to heal, possibly his entire life. Finally, someone else had snuffed out Torres’ life: Nils.

Jordan wished he’d been there to watch the scumbag bleed out. He wanted to ask Nils how it had felt, not that Jordan thought for a second Nils would confide that in him. And then, he wanted to hit Nils for taking his shot at revenge away from him. His fists clenched, then released. It wasn’t really worth it. Still there was one thing he wanted to know.

“Did he tell you why?” Jordan asked, with little hope that Nils would actually answer his question.

“Why, what?”

“Why he did it.” Jordan couldn’t bring himself to be more explicit, he felt like he was being held underwater and his lungs were about to burst from lack of oxygen.

Nils glanced up, the overhead fluorescent light glinted off his lenses, briefly obscuring his eyes. “Are you trying to make some sense of what happened to you? To Aidan? Trying to justify all your suffering--everything your brother put you through? I’ve got news for you kiddo,” he barked out a laugh. “Sometimes Shit Just Happens.” He dropped his half-smoked cigarette and ground it into the floor.

It wasn’t a satisfying answer, not in the least, but Jordan realized it offered him a choice. He could stay in Miami looking for answers and remain firmly anchored in his past, or he could let it go--step out of this empty storefront, turn his back to the past, and walk toward his future.

“I think you’re right,” he said finally. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life trapped by history. He noticed then that Nils’ energy had changed, just as his had. It was if they’d both been holding their breath for too long.

“So, I guess this is good-bye, cupcake.” Nils picked up a packing-tape dispenser and closed the box.

Jordan’s eye was caught by a tattoo at Nils wrist--he recognized it immediately--it was identical to the one Aidan had worn. He was certain if he turned Nils’ wrist over, he’d see the same motto etched in his skin.

He thought again about Goku waiting for him outside, then about the long flight to Paris. It was one he’d made numerous times, but this time he wouldn’t be returning to Miami. Goku had already sent Damon and Jake on ahead; they’d been busy overseeing the space he’d acquired to open up a new place: Amarinthine. It wasn’t going to be a nightclub; Goku had decided to branch out into the restaurant business. The press was already stirred up about it. If it had been anyone but Goku, Jordan would have told them it was a doomed proposition, but he knew firsthand his pointing out the futility of opening a restaurant without any restaurateuring experience would have no effect on Goku’s plans.

“I guess it is,” Jordan agreed. He stood there awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. _Thank you_ didn’t seem appropriate.

“Was there anything else?” Nils asked. Jordan shook his head. “Perhaps some friendly advice, then? Don’t let that boy of yours out of your sight.” His smile was bitter. Jordan wanted to feel sorry for him then, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to.

“I’ve got no intention of doing that,” he said, before he pushed open the door. The sun was momentarily blinding, but it was nothing compared to the smile that greeted him as he walked to the convertible idling at the curb.


End file.
